


When All the Flowers Are Rotten

by stympahalides



Series: Roll the Bones [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: A Little Sacrifice Retelling, Alcohol, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Nightmares, Pre-Geraskefer, Serious Injuries, Verbal Abuse, post-mountain, suicide mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:54:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29475792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stympahalides/pseuds/stympahalides
Summary: Jaskier travels alone after parting ways with Geralt and attempts to deal with his grief and anger.
Series: Roll the Bones [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978561
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	When All the Flowers Are Rotten

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Elsa's Song by The Amazing Devil.

“The fields were wet. They were waiting for something to happen. The whole world was breathless, waiting. I can’t tell you what a roaring noise I seemed to make alone on the road. It bothered me that whatever was waiting, wasn’t waiting for me.” _  
―_Jean Anouilh (translated by Lewis Galantiere), _Antigone_

Somehow, when Jaskier thinks about Geralt casting him out, he remembers the descent down the mountain more than his harsh words (though those are never far from his mind). 

The space of his head feels both too vast and too narrow. He hastily collects his things, briefly considers questioning the dwarves about what happened and getting the details he can for a song, but then wonders why, exactly, he would bother. Why would he write another song about Geralt? About how heroic and wonderful the witcher is, and all their glorious adventures together?

Jaskier’s heart aches, really, truly, and the muscles in his face repeatedly flex into an expression of grief, unshed tears blurring his vision before he brushes them away and forces his face lax. He’s going to cry, but damn him if he does it on top of this mountain surrounded by shitheads and just a few yards away from Geralt.

Every part of him just wants to go and get as far away as he can. 

His body moves of its own volition. Jaskier meanders down the path, not stumbling or dusting up his boots in haste, not singing or composing or unpacking his lute to strum and comfort himself. Just settles into the pain. Can’t navigate tone and verse, or unjumble this moment into song. Right now, he doesn’t see this day as a ballad, only a tragedy, and one he apparently molded on his own, guiding himself and Geralt down a rickety mess of a road.

He remembers- tries to remember- all the beats that brought him here, every decision he made and the mistakes and victories and pain, and he tries to reorganize them, lining them in a long row and picking apart the sections where he was only causing pain, where he harmed when he only meant to be…to be. Everything that brought him to this sharp point in time.

It is some time before he starts to think reasonably about the path he should take, and by then the decision is practically made for him. He had started on the hardpacked trail, walking their originally planned trek in reverse, starting at their destination and heading down in the direction to the area they’d trussed the horses. No sense trying for the dwarves’ shortcut again, not when it has already collapsed in places and especially not alone.

He continues on for nearly an hour, thoughts winding in and out. He wonders about Geralt, still feeling anger and guilt in turns, stomach surging with heat and then sickness as he tries to decide which warring emotion to hold on to. Twisting around in her own way, he thinks of Yennefer as well; her expression stricken, grabbing at her skirts and hurrying away, not sparing Jaskier a glance as she passed. He’d only heard bits and pieces of the conversation from his place on the stones, and then mostly only what rang out in their rising frustration. Geralt’s panic as he tried to hold on, Yennefer’s hurt and fury gentling into a soft sadness Jaskier never would have placed with her. Strange, so strange. And then she’d gone, and Borch had gone as well after a few parting words.

And then. Well. Jaskier shoveled shit.

Jaskier clenches his fists, the short curves of his fingernails burrowing into his palms, leaving little divots. Emotion is building into a surge under his skin, rising like vapors until he feels entirely too full and ready to burst. There’s nowhere to put it, nowhere to put it. No relief. He swallows hard and brings his hands to his eyes, pressing in hard and breathing harshly through his teeth, willing a pained groan back down his throat.

He’s interrupted by noise. The unexpectedness of it nearly jolts him out of his skin, and the shocked crack of adrenalin in his chest is enough to drain some of the tension, leaving him slightly bewildered and abashed. It feels like peeking out from behind a veil. His hearing zeroes in on the approaching sound, and he realizes that it’s impending footsteps. A group. 

Jaskier tenses. The dwarves, of course. But perhaps Geralt as well, unless the stubborn bastard decided to take another route or is still pouting where Jaskier left him. Where Jaskier was sent away.

Imagining that Geralt is going to pass him by with hardly a glance sends a cold shiver down Jaskier’s spine. Terrible thought. He can’t stand the idea, refuses to face the potential truth of it. There are answers he really doesn’t need, and with that in mind, Jaskier ducks into the nearby brush, scrambling until he is fairly hidden, doing his level best not to think of odd, hungry creatures.

Moments later, the troop of dwarves passes by, bickering and laughing as they do. One of them starts up a tune and the others pick it up swiftly, all in good cheer and clearly not sharing Jaskier’s concerns about nearby beasts. He watches them move, feeling a bit silly.

Childish. He used to play games like this with his brother, and hiding was always worse than seeking. For one, it meant staying tucked away and silent, which he was neither good at nor enjoyed. Then there was the itchiness of knowing the seeker was nearby, perhaps even within sight, and waiting for the jolt of discovery and the end of the game. Yet not being found was somehow worse.

Geralt doesn’t seem to be part of the group, but Jaskier stays put anyway, remaining still and quiet until he can no longer hear their cheering, then longer still to ensure he isn’t surprised by more footsteps following behind. Nothing. He stands, brushes flecks of grass and dead leaves from his breeches.

Jaskier hesitates, frowning out at the clear path as dread prickles and twists its heavy way through his chest. If he continues down the trail, he’ll constantly be worried about Geralt trotting up behind him. He’s not ready to have whatever conversation that means just yet. He’s not ready to face Geralt again, not without blubbering and embarrassing himself, or rearing up like a startled horse and making everything that much worse.

Jaskier is good with words. Very good with words. If he decides he wants to hurt Geralt he will. And he’s not ready to do that, either.

Ignoring the foolishness of it, Jaskier trudges deeper into the sprawling greenery, back to the path until he’s suitably far away, and then walks parallel to it. It has to be hard to get lost going downhill, anyway, so he should be fine, so long as he keeps the path to his right shoulder and keeps a keen hand to the dagger strapped to his belt.

He can practically hear Geralt growl in his ear _Don’t stray into the brush alone, Jaskier_ and ignores it with forced brazenness.

Truth be told, he hasn’t made himself hard to find. If Geralt really wants to, if he actively looks, he will easily find Jaskier. If he wants.

Jaskier ambles on until the sun tucks down below the trees, leaving a distant pink seam along the hidden horizon, hardly visible through the thick foliage. The sky has faded into a brittle blue, gradually darkening so Jaskier can make out the pale wisp of moon overhead.

After years of surviving in the woods, with or without Geralt, Jaskier knows how to make a modest campsite on his own. He builds a little fire, pulling the scantly-used flint from his pouch and sending sparks over his kindling, ducking forward to blow into the embers until the flames perk up. He smiles to himself, pleased, and enjoys the benefits of his labor for a beat before rising to unwind his bedroll and shuffle around in his bag for food.

Chewing on jerky, Jaskier keeps an eye on the fire and does his best to think of little else but the images he can pick out of the dancing flickers of red and ocher. His feet ache from days of travel, the muscles along the sole twitching and tensing into stitches. With a huff, he resettles so his legs are stretched out before him and works the boots off, stick of jerky poking out between his teeth as he slouches forward to unsnap the buckles and kick.

He eats slowly, then takes several small sips of water before tucking his waterskin carefully away. The water will have to last him the rest of the trip, assuming he doesn’t luck upon a stream on his way.

By now the sun has made its exit, and the stars stud the velvety night sky. Jaskier lies back, hands knotted together over his stomach, and stares at them through the leafy canopy.

Funny how this feels like the end of his world, of his little life. The final dregs of wine supped by red-stained lips. Exaggerated, perhaps. Unfailingly dramatic. But his heart feels very brittle now, and Jaskier grinds his teeth and thinks about how he had so many chances along the way to stop and plant himself but always, always chose to return to Geralt, and how he absolutely loved it and felt fulfilled by their adventures. Did he miss out on things? Sure. But no one gets to have everything, and he certainly had enough. He thinks about how much time he has spent looking for Geralt, following his trail, but also how they would sometimes happen upon each other like fate, like the universe was turning a tick to make sure they were together. How wonderful that always felt, to be found, the surprise discovery.

And he thinks about how it’s done now. Because he has fought with Geralt plenty of times but this time was different. There was no worry there, no annoyance. Geralt wasn’t losing patience. He was outright furious. And he wasn’t saying that he needed time, he was saying that Jaskier was a burden. That Jaskier only brought him pain.

Maybe Jaskier overstepped with all that talk about the coast, about running away together. It was a ridiculous thing to say. Absurd and maybe even mean to push that on Geralt, who would never want something like that. Not with Jaskier.

He struggles to sleep, doesn’t manage more than a few blinks. He jerks awake at any noise, half fear and half hope. Nothing comes from it. After a while he gives it up as a bad job and sits up to spend the rest of the night half-heartedly strumming his lute, waiting for the sun to emerge.

At first light, he quickly packs up camp and starts walking again, once again orienting himself against the distant path.

Several days pass before Jaskier finds his way to The Pensive Dragon Inn. It’s evening, and he is achy and exhausted as he shuffles back through the town, people bustling around in their late day errands and sniffing out supper and entertainment or rushing back home to end the day with their families.

Roach and Geralt’s things had already been gone when Jaskier passed the point where they left her, and while it didn’t surprise him that Geralt had gotten to the end of the mountain before him and left, it hurt to have that little bit of hope crumble.

He goes to the inn and swipes at his clothes in an inane attempt to rid himself of the collected dirt and grime of the road, then slinks to the bar for a drink. The barman takes in Jaskier’s cloudy but colorful clothes and the lute on his back with some expectation, but the bard doesn’t offer to perform. It’s a well-off inn and there is already a cluster of musicians at the stage, playing boisterous tavern songs and filling the place with gleeful sound.

It’s better this way; Jaskier doesn’t have the heart to play just now, nor the motivation for dancing and smiling, and the audience can always hear that. It would be no good to tarnish his reputation.

So, he finishes his drink and orders another along with supper- something light that won’t sit in his nervous stomach- and waits. It’s pointless, of course, but his attention twitches back to the door each time it opens looking for Geralt, hoping he isn’t really gone. He stays like that for several hours, drinking slowly and wanting so badly for Geralt to come back. It would be so simple for him to come back. It’s good to get these things over with quickly; an apologetic look and Geralt will say _Jaskier_ in that way he does, shamefaced and uncomfortable, as he always is when he feels bad but doesn’t know how to voice it, and Jaskier will be a little snarky, will make the witcher pay for his next drink- good wine, this time- and for their room. And of course, Jaskier will forgive him. _That easy?_ Of course. What else is there to do?

But Geralt doesn’t come.

The dwarves, however, do. They plow through the door in the same boisterous manner as their first appearance, hopping on the bar and shouting. Jaskier watches and thinks about making himself small or just fleeing. If they see him alone in this inn with his drink they will _know_. He doesn’t want anybody to know.

Jaskier is taking the last few gulps of his ale and trying to decide if he can afford a room here or if he should scram when there’s a high, croaky shout of, “Bard!” and the dwarves bustle over to him like old friends, clapping him heartily on the back, grinning broadly as they sing praises about dragon teeth and one hell of a journey.

And, just as Jaskier had feared, Yarpen runs a hand through his tangled red beard and asks, “Where’s your lousy witcher, then?”

Jaskier shrugs and tries for a smile, though it feels stiff and like his eyes might be open a little too wide with the effort. “Seems he was swept away by the forewind.”

They exchange looks, clearly unconvinced by his attempt to seem impassive. One he knows is named Yannick spits crudely and grumbles under his breath about _that damn witch_ , while Regan leans over the bar to shout for more drinks and his brother Paulie, cuffing Jaskier somewhat pityingly on the back of his neck, says, “Ah, don’t worry, poet. All wolves know north!” The rest of the dwarves nod and hum like this is the most sagely advice and get to work tearing through booze and victuals.

Jaskier nods noncommittally, very confused, and allows himself to be properly overwhelmed and overtaken by their merriment. 

One round becomes many, and the dwarves have to put very little work into plying Jaskier with drinks until he is pink-cheeked and loose-lipped. He drapes himself over the sticky tabletop, flashing his blue eyes up at their ruddy faces, which lean forward as well, quite interested in his tale. And Jaskier tells it, detailing how he watched from afar as Geralt and Yennefer had their argument, Borch sitting in and speaking so low Jaskier could only guess what he was adding to their conversation. If he had the capacity for shame, Jaskier would blush at how his lip wobbles in the retelling, and how, when he tells the interested dwarves about Geralt shouting at him and breaking his heart atop the mountain, words toppling and tripping out of him, a few careless tears slip between blinks.

It helps that his audience gasps and shakes their heads at the appropriate moments, and that they only interrupt with disbelieving shouts of _No!_ and _You can’t be serious!_ and _That useless cod!_ Once finished, Jaskier lays his forehead down on the table, heedless and uncaring at how ripe it smells and the tackiness it leaves on his bare hands.

One of the quieter dwarves, Xavier, shakes his head and covers a belch before slurring, “Poor lad.”

At the same time, Regan pinches Jaskier’s exposed cheek a fair bit too hard with his stubbed fingers and teases, “You’re so soft, bard, letting your feelings get bruised over something like that!”

Yarpen waves them off. “He’ll sort it out. They’ll all sort it out.”

The teasing and advice get slightly coarser the more they drink, and Jaskier gladly listens, happy for their company and their ears, and grateful to not be alone. They go around, taking turns talking, then rambling over each other. Tragedies and triumphs, conquests and washouts. How did you meet? What ever happened to so-and-so? You have to hear what this delinquent did! On and on and on.

Someone- Jaskier can hardly tell anymore; everyone seems to have four eyes and great, booming voices he can’t quite distinguish from his own- picks at one of the scale-like flaps on Jaskier’s red doublet and asks, “Where’re you from, anyway? All you bards dress like jesters, but you talk like a noble.”

Jaskier swallows from the mug in front of him, only to discover it is frothy beer, and not his drink at all. He takes another gulp before answering. “Up north.” He points a finger towards the ceiling.

Eventually, this trickles down into Jaskier talking about desperately wanting to leave his childhood home, which leads to him lamenting how he actually does love his family and misses them, which prompts a question about what the trouble was anyway, which, in the drunken way, results in Jaskier braiding someone’s beard and saying this:

“You know, my mother left when I was just a little baby. No one really talked much about it except my brother, of course. He had a different mother. The _beloved_ wife. She just left because she died. But _my_ mother ran away. She was apparently an odd one. An odd duck, my nanny said. And my brother told me…he said…he was joking but he said that she left because I was such a fussy baby. Noisy. I cried and cried and cried so mummy ran away. He was only joking, of course. Mothers don’t…they _don’t_ just…well, we never really talked about it. You know?”

Following this, Jaskier vaguely remembers dancing around while someone plays the spoons with what reads as miraculous speed and accuracy in the moment. Himself, the dwarves and several other drunks clumsily prance around the tables, sloshing drinks and shouting like fools, causing the inn workers grief. Then, once that dies down, someone holds him by the wrists, cursing him as he stumbles, trying to keep him on his feet and grumbling _“Lift your boots, you dumb fuck”_ in an effort to lever him up the stairs and to a room. But Jaskier feels so heavy and dizzy and tired, very tired, horrendously tired, much too tired to help, and so he slumps to the ground to sleep while the frustrated helper swears and tries to catch him under the arms.

**~*~**

Morning drains into the room with butter-yellow light and the incorrigible nattering of birds. Jaskier doesn’t move for some time, doesn’t even attempt to open his eyes or make any noise. He’s in a room, on a soft bed, tucked under the covers with his boots still on, though further investigation will reveal that someone did try to unbuckle them and understandably gave up. The walls are thick enough that Jaskier can’t hear the chatter of the bar downstairs, nor even people in neighboring rooms or hallway traffic. He lets himself sink deeper into the bed and drift in and out of sleep, tucking the blanket closer to his ears as the sun insistently crowds in through the window in an effort to rouse him.

Much later, when the mossy feeling and sour taste in his mouth becomes too much and his hip starts to ache from laying on it too long, he drags himself into a sitting position, arms pulling the blanket up with him, maintaining its place around his shoulders, and appraises the room.

He doesn’t recall paying for the room, or even asking if one was available, though he can draw up the foggy memories of getting lead up the stairs and wishes he knew who he drooled over and weighed down so he could offer his thanks and then never show his face again. Trying to recall it is a lost cause. The person was apparently very kind, though, and went so far as to bring up Jaskier’s things, which are tidily tucked into the corner. Jaskier abandons the bed, stretching languidly, and peruses through his bags, finding all in order but a few missing coins, which he might have spent. Possibly on the room, more likely on alcohol.

Head thrumming with a hangover and the rest of him drained and dehydrated, he hobbles to the water basin, grateful to find it full, and ladles it up to his face with cupped hands, groaning as it cools his skin and manages to make him feel mildly less gross. He slowly moves around, working his body into wakefulness, pissing and cleaning up a bit, changing into fresh clothes and stuffing the red outfit deep into his bag where he won’t have to acknowledge it for some time. A few times he stops and leans against the wall, breathing slowly and willing the contents of his stomach to settle, or just rubbing his eyes and praying Melitele soothes the gripping pain behind them. 

Once he can face the light of day, Jaskier takes himself down to the main room and pays for a bath. He drinks some water and chats until a young man gently taps his shoulder and tells him the room is ready for him. Jaskier passes him a few coins and finishes his drink before heading off.

The room is lovely, much nicer than what they usually find in their rundown or struggling small town inns. For starters, there is a latch on the door to prevent interruptions and ensure privacy. The floor is lined with tiles the color of copper and emerald, so that when the candle light flickers just so, it looks like the room in lined with little sparks. The walls are dark, and several tapestries hang down, weaved with colorful illustrations from old stories Jaskier remembers from childhood. A cottage in the wood preceded by a trail of sweets, three strange and frightful women peaking out through the windows, tongues hanging and lolling hungrily. A great wolf sprawled in a cave, eyes bright and wide, howling and clutching himself as if pained, the stone pulling back into a bright garden and women, crouched and praying. A tiny room lit by fire, centered by a gorgeous, red-skinned horned woman who runs a comb through her hair, seemingly unaware of the hulking figure approaching her door.

Jaskier swishes his fingers through the tub water, and, pleased with the temperature, gets to work. He strips quickly, folding the fresh clothes and setting them aside in a neat pile, feeling a bit silly for changing into them to begin with. On a nearby pile, he finds a tray of soaps and oils, and makes a careful selection, uncorking the bottles and sniffing until he finds something familiar and brings it to the tub with him. Finally, he steps in and sinks into the warm water, groaning on his way down.

He studies the tapestries for a while, hunting for secrets in the threads, then lets his eyes drop shut and lowers himself farther down into the tub, water sloshing around him and dripping from the tips of his feet as he slides them up and lets them hang off the edge of the bath. Plip, plip, plip.

Jaskier soaks until it’s unbearable to do nothing and then starts lathering the soap onto his skin, humming idly as he does so, doing his best to crowd thought out of his head and failing miserably. Pitifully, clenching his teeth against it, he cries. The tears leave salty trails down his face, then drop down into the basin with him. He thinks _what if he came back and I missed him_ and it sends a chill down his spine that the heated water can’t abate, and the tears hasten, hitching his shoulders with silent, trembling sobs that he hates himself for, frustrated by his own stupidity.

He ducks his head underwater, holding his breath until his ribs jump and ache for air, and then bursts out, swiping his hair back from his forehead and then waiting to see if the weeping continues. It doesn’t. It doesn’t. Shaking his head, he settles back down and rinses off, only emerging completely from the tub when the water is room temperature.

Clean and dressed, Jaskier returns to his room to collect his things, then goes to eat downstairs, wondering what he’s going to do after this. He can’t just stay here forever, waiting for someone who will never show up and wasting away the rest of his coin and sanity.

Gritting his teeth, Jaskier orders a beer, remembering the frothy, bitter earthiness from the taste his had last night, and imagines Geralt rolling his eyes at him and saying _Haven’t learned your lesson, I see_. With this in mind, Jaskier drinks it fast and somewhat acrimoniously. It doesn’t taste as good as he remembers.

Once it’s gone, Jaskier licks his lips and makes a decision. He doesn’t need a goal in mind; it’s enough to just go. He’s been alone before. He’s been alone a lot. Fuck it.

Gathering his lute and bag onto his shoulders and checking that he’s paid his dues, Jaskier sets out into the open air, blinking against the afternoon sun. There are horses whinnying in the nearby stables and passersby chatting as they go about their routines, unconcerned with the bard hovering uncertainly in the middle of the road, easily stepping around him and only occasionally sending him questioning or dirty looks.

After a moment’s thought, Jaskier directs himself away from the mountain and definitely away from the town where he and Geralt had been on their last contract. Their last contract, maybe their last contract together ever, Jaskier singing songs by Roach and some suspicious, eventually thieving townsfolk and then the fucking mountain. Two stories he didn’t get to see. That’s the end of it. That might really be the end of it.

He starts walking.

~*~

Jaskier wanders. There’s no aim, no goal. No comfort in the knowledge that his lone adventures will be bookended with a joyous reunion, and better adventures still.

His difficulties singing and composing do not improve. Each tavern he stumbles into brings recognition and questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and requests he isn’t ready to meet. _Sing about the witcher, tell us about the White Wolf._ Jaskier just grits his teeth into a sharp grin and refuses as gently as he can. They can’t understand that he doesn’t know what to say about their witcher anymore. At least, not right now. Later, later. He’ll work it out.

For now, his fingers seem to catch and hook awkwardly on his lute in ways they haven’t since before he built his callouses, landing sloppily between frets and dropping onto the wrong strings. His voice is reluctant and strangles the notes or hovers around the words meekly, as if afraid of them. Composition has become impossible; he spends countless nights hunched over his notebook, lute resting idle and untouched across the room, hunting for the right words but finding them painfully elusive and recalcitrant. His days on the road are silent, hands clutched uselessly around the strap of his lute case, twitching with the desire but inability to play.

While this goes on, apparently ceaseless, as if the world needs to be anymore cruel, Jaskier’s mood gradually darkens. The sharp pain in his heart when he thinks about the mountain, about Geralt and destiny and his own role in all of it, twists and crystallizes into a weighted lump.

Besides the obvious frustration, his failure to perform also burdens him financially. He watches his coin purse shrink until it’s a loose bag, and then starts doing dull and menial tasks at the taverns and inns he floats into. Cleaning and other small errands that earn him some coin. Sometimes he traipses through forests and fields to pick different familiar plants for herbalists, and on occasion he has even taken on minor injuries that only require a dab of salve he has leftover or a few rudimentary stitches.

Worse comes to worse, he can return to Oxenfurt and take that position they always dangle over him, or, if pride overtakes his sense as it usually does, he can tuck himself away in some noble’s house as a personal tutor to their spoiled children. 

In his spare time, Jaskier drinks. Heavily and carelessly. Somewhat bitterly. He trails from one town to the next, stumbling in and casting around for odd jobs, ignoring the raised eyebrows directed at his flashy clothing and untouched lute, then finds a seat at the local tavern and seeks a small touch of oblivion, be that at the bottom of a tankard or between a stranger’s legs really depends on his mood and the overall atmosphere.

He imagines Geralt’s admonishments, his warnings and chastisements and frustration. That amused quirk to his mouth, golden eyes rolling to the sky as he shakes his head and stifles a laugh. Always, always.

Now he thinks Geralt might have looked at him slung across yet another tavern table, arms stretched across and hooking around the curve opposite him, dizzy head plonked down and refreshed tankard splashing froth onto the table, and said _You’re being dramatic_. Low and judgmental, but not mean. Not just yet. Not in Jaskier’s fantasy, at least. 

Jaskier peels his hands from the edge of the table and slowly drags them back to him, drawing himself up. The side of his face feels viscid and slightly wet at the corners. He ignores his disgust in favor of swirling the spilled ale with the tip of his finger, pulling it into unidentifiable and wavering shapes. Admiring his work, he slurs, “Of course, I’m being dramatic. I’m a bard. All I do is feel things.”

No one is listening. Relief and shame.

~*~

Jaskier’s wandering brings him to a crossroads. Where the different paths meet, there is a thin trail bordered by stones that leads up to a notice board. A hooded figure stands there and reads the posts, tapping his foot absently as he does so.

His heart picks up for a moment, but is quickly staunched. The shoulders are too narrow and the hip is canted uncharacteristically, along with the lack of swords and a dappled gray horse in the place of the usual bay.

Disappointment surges in his chest regardless of how he tries to tamper it, and Jaskier hunches so his hair falls forward to cover his eyes, hoping to slip by the stranger without saying anything. He squints at the different roads and then hastily cuts across the way to the one that should lead him to the nearest town.

Before he can disappear, however, an unfriendly but familiar voice calls out, “Is that Jaskier?” The shock of it stops him in his tracks.

Jaskier’s stomach clenches with the desire to not be seen. He knows how he looks and can’t stand the idea of talking to anyone who knows him any other way. Pretending it isn’t too late to fake not hearing the man, Jaskier adjusts his bootlaces and then continues walking. Before he can get far, however, the other man strides forward, steps even and quick and too graceful to be fair, and easily catches up to him.

Reluctant but lacking any other option, Jaskier slowly turns to face the other man, only to confirm what he had dreaded. Neatly curled blonde hair peaks through the edges of his hood, and his eyes are a dusty gray, battering around like hummingbird wings, assessing Jaskier in the same way Jaskier is looking at him, though probably coming away with a significantly more lackluster image. The man’s cloak pools down over his shoulders, but now that they’re facing each other, Jaskier can see his colorful, well-tailored clothes beneath. Chocolate brown, with green embroidery, like roots winding through soil, seeking water. Nice and thick for traveling down damp roads and fighting off chill.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Can’t you tell when someone isn’t interested, you vapid—” but he’s cut off when the man- none other than Valdo Marx- leans in so that they are nose to nose, pale eyes narrowing as he swings closer. Jaskier’s jaw clamps shut, nerves jangling in his stomach and his skin prickling all over, as if wishing to lift from his bones and flee. 

Valdo finally pulls back and says, “You must be unwell, Jaskier. You’re always disheveled, but now you look like you’ve been trampled.” He pauses to sniff, grimacing and pinning Jaskier with a disapproving look before he continues, “In a brewery. And your hair has gotten long.”

One prim, neatly manicured hand snaps from the cloak quick as a snake and twirls a finger into a strand of Jaskier’s hair with surprising gentleness. Jaskier swats it away, lips pulling back over his teeth, and snaps, “Get your—”

But Valdo interrupts him again with a lifted palm cresting the air before Jaskier’s face. Jaskier’s words catch in his throat, face twisting and mouth dropping into an appalled shape, focusing in on the deft fingers and seriously considering the value of biting one off. Valdo’s hand drops easily to his side but he doesn’t turn back to his horse, instead dragging his appraising eye over Jaskier once more before arching a brow and saying, “It’s horribly embarrassing.”

Shamed heat swells between Jaskier’s ribs and he pulls back as if slapped. Valdo means nothing to him; his songs are horrible and trite, he needs to shave that ridiculous mustache, his company is difficult to stomach and he presents himself as pompous and haughty and altogether difficult to like. Still, this simple insult makes Jaskier’s stomach clench and his face feels tingly and he can’t think of a single thing to say in response. He feels so fucking small. Can’t Valdo see that he feels so absolutely, worthlessly small? Isn’t it plain that Jaskier doesn’t need anything more piled on top of him? Doesn’t need anymore flesh stripped away?

A moment passes. Valdo clears his throat, looking slightly thrown, and says, “Yes. I’m absolutely humiliated that my rival has fallen into such a state. It reflects very poorly on _me_.”

Jaskier balks, hands twitching to wrap around the other man’s throat and squeeze. “On you? If you think someone other than you has ever drawn a connection between—”

Again, Valdo talks over him, tilting his head so he can look down his nose at Jaskier, sighing in a rather put out manner. “We’re going to have to make this right.”

He grabs Jaskier under the elbow and starts pulling him back towards the dappled gray. Eyes wide, Jaskier yanks away, shoving at Valdo somewhat viciously, and yells, “For fuck’s sake, Valdo!”

Jaskier doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it certainly isn’t for Valdo to redouble his efforts, fingers clamping down with surprising strength. Jaskier wrestles with him for a moment, but finds himself being manhandled, his boots digging grooves into the dirt as he’s pulled along like an unruly child.

Voice barely clipped with effort, Valdo settles Jaskier before his horse and says with sprightly vigor, “Come along. I’m traveling to Cidaris at the moment, but I can’t stand to know you’re in such disrepair when you’re meant to be representing our university. It’s bad enough that you run through the muck chasing monsters and spewing out those trivial ballads, but seeing you like this is just appalling.”

Speech complete, Valdo hauls himself easily up onto the horse, scooching forward so there is a rather obvious space on the saddle behind him. Suddenly, Jaskier is staring up at Valdo, sidled up beside his horse in a position that is very familiar if not quite right. He ogles him for a moment, then eyes the length of trail he had been aiming for. He considers the merits of bolting, how far he would get, and just how determined Valdo might be.

Valdo rolls his eyes and slumps rather theatrically forward on his horse, who stays very calm and still as its rider shimmies around. “Goodness, Jaskier. Did you crack your skull when you sloshed through whatever sewer has left you like this? Up.”

Feeling slight dazed, Jaskier sends him a dagger-sharp look and says, “I’m just coming to terms with being forced into such close proximity with that egregious jerkin.” He presses a hand to his chest as if gathering his courage and then mounts the horse, tucking in close behind the other bard, reluctantly absorbing the heat from the stretch where his chest meets Valdo’s back.

Unexpectedly, Valdo rumbles with soft laughter, and the shake of it rattles to Jaskier’s bones.

They hurry down the road Jaskier had been intending to follow, bringing him to town much faster than expected. His sore feet and lower back might thank Valdo and his horse, but Jaskier stubbornly does not. Valdo lets him dismount first, then quickly follows, keeping an eye on Jaskier while he hands the horse off to a stablehand with a smile and quick exchange of coin. Then he hurries behind Jaskier and urges him forward into the warm inn.

At first glance, it’s already significantly better equipped and looked after than the places Jaskier normally stays, even when he had two less than steady incomes paying for rooms rather than just his own. A fire crackles near the center of the main room, tables placed strategically around it so the occupants can all stay warm. Near the far end is a long, polished bar that backs into an open and steaming kitchen, where Jaskier can see several cooks bustling about. There are paper banners strewn across the upper corners of the room, several dangling down like colorful vines, kept in place by weathered nails and twine, and the walls are covered in tapestries and vibrant murals. 

Valdo shakes off his cloak, draping it over his arm as he leads the way to the bar. A woman greets them good-naturedly, obvious as she looks over their clothing but not bothering to comment. She obviously sees the instrument cases strapped to their backs but doesn’t bother them about performing, though there is a raised platform at the far end of the room that must be a small stage.

Jaskier returns the smile, then drops her gaze to look around as Valdo asks about room availabilities and orders a bath. He taps Jaskier’s shoulder, prompting him to start walking again, and then leads them up a flight of stairs and down the hall to a room. Jaskier watches passively while Valdo settles his bags down, placing his lute case on the table with reverence. Then Valdo looks at him expectantly and somewhat impatiently until Jaskier does the same with his own belongings, steadily complaining about the weather, that Jaskier really has nothing decent to wear, and how Jaskier’s hair has gotten long enough to curl around his ears and flick out at his jawline, which apparently looks ridiculous.

Once that’s done, Valdo once again guides Jaskier out of the room and down the hall back the way they came, lightly knocking on a door this time and waiting for the soft call of greeting before pushing them both in. Jaskier is about to snap at him for being so pushy, for directing him around like some sort of pet, but stops short when he sees the wide bathtub, slowly being filled with steaming water by a young man who smiles at them and hurries through pouring the contents of the remaining buckets in and then quietly leaves.

Valdo and Jaskier stand looking at the tub without moving for several drawn out moments before Valdo groans very loudly and swipes a hand out as if presenting the bath to him.

He says, “Do you remember what soap is, or shall I explain?” Jaskier shoots him a contemptuous look before leaning over the edge of the tub and slashing his hand over the top of the water, sending a spray out at the other man, who squawks and stumbles away, hands coming up to guard himself. “I’ll return soon. Be clean when I do,” Valdo grits out, backing up to the door and slipping out.

Alone, Jaskier gets to work, peeling off his clothes, any glamor they once had truly faded from the rough treatment they’ve been dealt, and leaving them in a tidy pile on a stool in the corner. He eases down into the water. It’s pleasantly warm and saps the strength from his stiff muscles, lulling him down deeper into the tub to soak. He doesn’t allow himself to linger for long, uncertain when his company will return. Reluctantly dragging himself up, Jaskier reaches for the soap and hurries through washing himself, thorough and not allowing himself to luxuriate.

As he runs his fingers through his hair, he is surprised to find that Valdo wasn’t exaggerating about how long it has gotten. When he tugs at it, forcing out the tangles while working up a lather, he can see the tips. He rolls a few damp strands between his fingers. His hair has never been this long, at least not since he was a little boy. How did he not notice?

Once he’s all rinsed, Jaskier stands, wringing the excess water out of his locks before stepping over the rim of the tub onto the hard floor. There’s a mirror against the wall and Jaskier glances at it anxiously, carefully not assessing his own relief when he discovers it foggy with steam, unable to reveal just how bedraggled he’s gotten. The cold air sends goosebumps prickling up along planes of bare flesh, and Jaskier casts around for a towel, sighing when he finds one carefully folded and placed comfortably within arms reach on a low shelf.

Jaskier wraps the towel around his waist and moves around the room, plonking himself down in a seat near a high window, where passersby can’t sneak a glance in but the sunlight can slip through, leaving a bright, warm patch on the floor. It glances over his shoulders and he leans forward to let it warm his back, fully aware that he must look ridiculous.

He’s nearly dry before there is a delicate knock on the door. Jaskier half expects it to be one of the inn workers, peaking their head in to make sure he hasn’t drowned or to ask if he needs anything. Instead, Valdo cracks the door open with his foot, prancing in without asking if he’s welcome, and bucking it shut with a quick cant of his hips.

Jaskier sits up, feeling the front of his towel come untucked at the sudden movement and not quite caring when the edges fall apart to reveal himself in his entirety. Valdo glances up and goes very still, eyes fluttering a little at the sight. A wicked delight drags the corners of Jaskier’s mouth up into a grin, and he cocks a brow in challenge.

The gesture vanishes any uncertainty from Valdo’s face, and he instead eyes Jaskier critically, jaw sticking out with a disapproving glare. It’s quite clear what he thinks of him.

He says, “You’ve fallen further than I thought.”

Jaskier laughs. The noise is slightly more brittle than he recalls, and he snaps his mouth shut to silence it, a cold uneasiness wriggling in his gut. He rises to his feet and grabs at his clothes, hopping into his underclothes without sparing Valdo another look.

Before he can start into his undershirt, however, Valdo clears his throat. There’s a secondary noise of something crinkling, and Jaskier, ever weak to his own curiosity, turns to look. 

The man is holding a box, the lid lifted and set aside, his hand lightly tapping out a rhythm on the content’s careful packaging. Seeing that he has captured Jaskier’s attention, he holds the box out for him to take, mouth set into a rather bored look as he says, “I can’t look at those rags anymore- throw them in the fire.”

Jaskier glares at him, prepared to throw the smelly clothes in his face, but then the box is pressed into his arms, the suddenness of it causing him to lose his grip on his well-used doublet, and his eyes instinctually drop down to look. The packaging has been rustled enough that Jaskier can see fabric, and he licks his lips before lifting a hand to pull the item from the box so he can get a better look at it. Breeches, accompanied by a fresh doublet. They aren’t a color Jaskier would normally choose; emerald green, almost pearlescent. Jaskier’s going to look like a green glass bottle.

Jaskier licks his lips and says, dully and with the petulance of someone who wasn’t prepared to receive kindness, “They won’t fit properly.”

Valdo snorts. “Your body must be unique indeed if you require such particular tailoring.”

Jaskier sends him a look, but can’t help the lilt in his voice when he says, “I don’t know Valdo. You just saw my body and didn’t look all that put off.”

“Get dressed,” Valdo grumbles, then turns on his heel and leaves Jaskier, who for once does as he is told. His old clothes were falling apart a bit, if he’s honest. Not their fault; such opulent materials aren’t intended to be worn day and night, nor abused beyond whatever hijinks one can get into while performing. Which is, in fairness, quite a bit.

Clean and dressed, Jaskier grabs his pile of old clothes and starts back to their rented room, quietly considering the possibility of actually tossing them into the fireplace and deciding that it would be too wasteful. He opens the door without knocking. Valdo only startles a little, then returns to his lax position on the bed, winding his arms behind his head and jangling his foot where it is propped on his knee. Jaskier deposits his belongings into his bag, shoving them down to the bottom where they can be temporarily forgotten, then redirects his attention to his own bed. He drops down onto it and wedges his face into the mattress with a groan.

Exhaustion descends on him, and it isn’t long before Jaskier is drowsing belly-down on top of the blanket, feet hanging over the end of the bed. He’s only vaguely aware of Valdo getting up and walking past him, rustling around the other side of the room. There’s the sound of latches snapping open, then a distant and unhappy hum. Jaskier burrows deeper down into sleep in an effort to ignore the other man’s busywork, but can’t manage to block it out when he hears a lute strum behind him. It sounds horrible, absolutely discordant and twanging and wrong.

Jaskier jerks up and rolls to see whatever monstrosity is being plucked, opening his mouth to complain when Valdo, who has moved to sit in a wooden chair beside the hearth, plucks his way down the strings again and says, “You’re out of tune.”

Jaskier’s stomach twists. Valdo has his lute, Filavandrel’s lute, propped up against his knee as he delicately adjusts the pegs and attempts to tune it. Jaskier leaps from the bed, pulse strong in his temples. He marches across the room with new energy, nearly tripping over himself in his vigor.

He reaches his hands out towards Valdo and grits out, “You should know better that to touch another man’s instrument when—” before Valdo simply passes the lute over, not looking at all tense or worried over Jaskier’s approach. Jaskier takes it reverently, carefully not thinking about how his hands are trembling, and stands rather dumbly before the other man. 

Valdo meets his eyes unabashedly. “I just wondered if maybe you’d forgotten about it. Or if your ears were damaged along with the rest of you.”

“Fuck off!” Jaskier snaps. He swallows reflexively past the lump in his throat, brushing his thumb over the bridge. 

Valdo watches his hands, something shifting in the pale pools of his eyes. He speaks slowly, deliberately, as if Jaskier might have a hard time understanding him. Pretentious cur. But also, softly. Carefully. With more care than Jaskier is accustomed to, and definitely more than he wants. Valdo says, “Whatever happened…that’s enough now, don’t you think?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and pretends to be unaffected, turning his back on Valdo and returning to his bed, taking the lute with him, tucked protectively against his ribs. “Well, I’m dramatic. I like to go above and beyond,” he says, and then gingerly tunes the lute himself as the other bard looks on.

Some time later, they wander downstairs for dinner, placing themselves close to the modest stage so they can ignore each other in favor of watching the performers. A distracted barmaid makes her way over, one eye locked on the musicians as they work their way around a tune, a tad faster than the song really calls for, and tells them what’s being served.

They nod agreeably, but once she has left them, eyes still directed to the stage, Valdo leans forward and says, a bit derisively for Jaskier’s taste, “Perhaps you should abstain from the wine.”

Before Jaskier can snark back at him, Valdo pops onto his feet and saunters over to the bar, where he speaks to the innkeeper for a short while before returning. He sits down primly on the edge of his chair, body turned so he can watch the performers. Their food is brought out and placed before them, and Jaskier digs in, glaring suspiciously when Valdo takes a few minor sips of his drink but leaves his meal untouched.

When the song finishes, the innkeeper, who Jaskier didn’t notice making his way up from the back of the room, sidles up to the stage and murmurs something up at the singer, who furrows his brow and kneels to have a hushed and rather heated spat with him. Valdo quirks an eyebrow at Jaskier, though his eyes are lit with amusement.

When the innkeeper steps back, the musicians collect their things and stomp off the stage, mouths set in hard lines and eyes dark. Valdo promptly takes their place and Jaskier nearly chokes on a chunk of bread.

Valdo gets through three songs and Jaskier gets through his dinner and Valdo’s abandoned wine before he can’t stand it anymore. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth and pushes his chair back, making pointed eye contact with Valdo before he hops on stage beside him, raising his voice to say, “I believe this man’s hunger has gotten the best of him,” and cracking his own lute, nearly untouched for a month now, from it’s case.

Valdo smiles at him. Smiles. Without a touch of anger or resentment, and deferentially tucks his own instrument away before finding his way back to his food. Jaskier feels manhandled and foolish, staring out at the crowded dining room.

It’s been a long time since he could stand to perform, but the lute still sits comfortably in his hands and his voice finds the right notes. He’s pleasantly surprised with himself. After muffling his own voice for so long, it feels freeing to sing, and his throat doesn’t seal anxiously around the words. His fingers move deftly and properly over the fretboard. It feels good in a way that nothing has for some time, and his chest swells with the sense of returning to himself. Relief and delight twisting somewhat madly up his spine until a proud smile works itself onto his face. Finally, finally.

He performs until his voice, unused for so long and out of practice, starts to crack with dryness, and bows his way from the stage, flouting a cocky smile as he winds back to the table. Valdo takes a dainty sip from his refreshed glass and doesn’t make the snide comment that’s dancing behind his eyes. Instead, he gestures towards a steaming mug. Jaskier takes it, sniffing suspiciously at the rising vapors. Tea. A suggestion of peppermint. Nonplussed, he takes a careful sip, nodding his thanks with some discomfort.

He’s quickly replaced on stage by the original performers, who don’t try to hide their miffiness and bang on their instruments a bit aggressively. Jaskier leans forward onto his arms, ticking his head to the side so he can watch them.

After a while, Valdo asks, “So, where has your muse gone?” 

Jaskier closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Valdo is swirling the contents of his glass and keeping his attention imperiously on the ruby liquid’s wavering.

“Hmm,” Jaskier starts, fantasizing about swatting the glass out of Valdo’s hand and making a run for it. “Last I checked, she was teaching herself macramé. Bored, I think. But I haven’t seen the dear Countess in years.”

A pause. “I meant the witcher.”

“I know,” Jaskier grumbles. He takes another swallow of tea and turns completely in his seat so his back is to Valdo. Let that be his answer.

“Ah, I see,” Valdo hums, immediately followed by the loud scraping of his chair across the wooden floor as he drags it to the other side of the table and sits himself right beside Jaskier, facing the musicians and smiling as if enjoying the performance. Assuming he isn’t completely tone deaf, he isn’t. “How long since you parted?”

Jaskier flexes his fingers reflexively, but answers. “Months ago.” It had been cold on the mountain, and the season has been slowly turning, brisk cold replaced by twittering birds and rain. Normally, he’d be looking for Geralt by now, or hastening to their pre-selected meetup spot, eager to share stories of how he spent his winter, and to hear how the witcher had spent his time, and if his brothers were well. Thinking about it makes him ache, though, so he doesn’t. He doesn’t. Not if he can avoid it, anyway.

Valdo makes an understanding noise, as if his answer has clarified the situation perfectly. “Interesting,” he says, voice slick. “So, this is your response to heartbreak? I’ve never known a bard to not take advantage of such strong emotion. Odd.”

Jaskier’s jaw tightens. “Oh, to hell with you. The closest you’ve gotten to strong emotion was Lakeside Lenora and we both know that it was cowritten in the broadest sense.”

Valdo tsk-tsks. “You’ve wasted your time being sad, Jaskier. Your songs are drenched in it. Heroics, sadness and longing. Enough.” Jaskier is preparing a scathing rebuttal when Valdo leans closer and says, “If I were you, I’d be furious. Absolutely furious.”

Jaskier opens his mouth. Then shuts it. Then shakes his head. “You’re saying I should be angry?”

Valdo shrugs, dropping back in his chair. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe he should be upset with you. Maybe you just need to get over yourself. But I know anger is much more motivational than grief. And you clearly need motivation.”

Jaskier has to turn the idea around in his head. It sits strangely in his stomach. Of course, he and Geralt have bickered and snapped their way up and down the Continent, and neither of them walked away unmarked, their arguments volleying from lively debate to outright barbed and seething insults. Geralt had hurt his feelings and his pride a number of times, and Jaskier is under no illusions that he didn’t do the same. But it had always been easy to forgive. Sometimes it had felt like forgiveness was a precursor for their snipping, and that the understanding of forgiveness simultaneously gave them each permission to be horrible and set limits to what could rightfully be said. Forgiveness, affection, always bordered their fighting. Like the games Jaskier used to play with his brother; Roark chasing him around with a stick, shouting out playful threats and swatting at him hard enough to hurt, hard enough to prompt Jaskier into a wrestling match that involved more screaming than muscle, but never hard enough or with the intention to harm. Always restraint.

Is he angry with Geralt? Should he be? Does it make a difference, if there’s nowhere to let his feelings land? Is the anger for Jaskier? Is the forgiveness for Geralt? Or the other way around?

The night winds on, and Valdo lets Jaskier silently pick through his thoughts until the room is candlelit and almost empty of everyone but drunks. They rise, stretching stiff limbs and finishing the last dregs of their drinks, then start up to their room. Valdo lets Jaskier in, then sets the key in plain sight on the tiny corner table. As Jaskier watches, he picks around the room, gathering his scattered belongings and tucking them away, and then hoists his bags over his shoulder.

He turns to face Jaskier, smiling at the confusion he must see there. “The room is paid for until morning, but I simply cannot stay in these conditions any longer. Adieu.”

Jaskier blinks, watching as Valdo shifts his bags into a more comfortable position and then glides out the door without another word. If he were a better man, Jaskier would tell him he should rest, or at least call out a thank you. He almost lets him go silently, throat clenching around anything he might want to say.

Then, Jaskier flails his arms out artfully, twisting his face into a blissful expression, and shouts to the other man’s back, “Oh, Valdo! I’m all aglow! I’m aflutter! Your heroism has overwhelmed me! How could I ever repay you?”

Valdo glances at him over his shoulder, dour. “Goodness. Histrionic as ever, and still lacking the capacity for embarrassment and a sense of dignity.” 

And then Valdo is gone. For a hovering moment, Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with himself. The walls are too thick for him to hear any of the merriment going on downstairs, leaving the room disconcertingly silent. He stands in the center of it, fiddling with the hem of his new doublet, the thump of blood nagging in his ear. Biting his lip, he scurries to the window and wrenches it open, sticking his head out and letting the cool air crest his face. Grumbling animals from the stables below, chickens clucking in a nearby pen, the murmurs of locals shuffling along, careful not to stir the night too much. 

Settled, Jaskier leaves the window open and wanders to his things. He takes off the new clothes, patting them appreciatively and setting them aside for tomorrow. Then he throws on an oversized nightshirt and wanders back to the bed, not looking at the empty one beside it. He draws down the covers and slips in, quickly snuffing the candle so the room is thrown into darkness and rolling so he faces the window.

And he tests the waters; he thinks about the mountain, about Geralt blaming him for everything, about all the time and love he gave to the witcher and how it all culminated in a screaming fit and Geralt telling him he’d only brought him trouble and suffering. He wants to be angry, but when he lets the words sink into his heart, remembering how Geralt’s face had contorted, how his gold eyes had been sharp and his voice booming, he feels pained. Guilty. Fearful.

Sleep is elusive and uneasy. Jaskier wakes in the morning with a pressure behind his eyes, but he doesn’t linger in the room longer than necessary. His belongings fit easily into his bag, and he clutches the strap of his lute case before setting off once more. 

~*~

As it happens, Jaskier discovers that anger isn’t quite out of his reach. He just doesn’t know how to aim it, apparently.

At a tavern, someone eyes Jaskier and whispers something he can’t make out. But the intention is clear. Ridicule. It’s stupid and silly and nothing that has ever bothered him before. Not really. Not unless he was just whining for the sake of being a nuisance, because sometimes he just needs to make noise and drag someone down with him. But the person sneers, again looking at Jaskier, and his companions snicker along with him.

_You fool_ , he imagines, Geralt’s voice gruff in his memory. _They’ll clobber you_.

And, gods, Jaskier cherishes it. He laughs and turns to the men, standing with his chest out, projecting that he isn’t afraid, pretending he thinks he can win. Opens his mouth and says something absolutely vile that gets them on their feet.

Then fists, then blood.

They drop him in the stables, and he stares blearily up at the horses. They poke at him curiously, their velvet lips twitching along his busted knuckles and swollen face before pulling away. Undoubtedly, they also think he’s a fool. The hay sticks to him when he shifts, clinging to his sweat and blood. He realizes that no position he tries will bring him comfort and just rests back heavily with a groan, dropping his eyes shut and _wishing_ , _wishing_.

~*~

He composes a new song. Her Sweet Kiss. It was supposed to be something else ( _if I were a man of more mettle, if I were a man of resolve, I’d leave you behind, get my fair peace of mind, from a bottle of grain alcohol_ ) but, as with everything, it contorts out of his control.

He performs it, trying to convey to his audience that he gave and gave and gave and was betrayed. But the idea cracks and chips under his grasp as he realizes that he isn’t made for these grudges, that he can’t be angry, that he can’t maintain this ire for someone he has always loved. And he lets it go. Fuck Valdo and his ridiculous, unhelpful advice.

~*~

It happens like this: Jaskier is playing in a tavern when he is recognized not as a wonderful, gifted, famous musician but as a witcher’s bard. A regular occurrence. He can’t escape it, no matter what he sings or how adamantly he avoids the songs he wrote about witcher adventures and sings only those that are carefully masked and could really be about anyone. The ballads. But he has a reputation and it’s largely tied to Geralt. It’s what happens when you pile your eggs in one basket.

He can tell that someone is watching him, staring hard and persistently as he performs. Could be worrisome, but more likely it’s nothing. Probably a listener trying to work out if he’s actually Jaskier or just someone singing his songs, or simply trying to catch his eye. That happens sometimes, too. Fans who want a little closer.

Still, it makes him uneasy and he wraps up his set earlier than he would have otherwise, then tries to get around the crowd and to the bar before he is accosted. He doesn’t make it. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and his first thought is that he’s going to be spun around and punched, either for one of his own misdeeds or one of Geralt’s perceived wrongdoings, possibly actually deserved to some degree.

Instead, he’s turned sternly but not painfully to face the man behind the heavy hand, who studies his face for a long moment before asking, “You’re Jaskier the minstrel, yes?”

Jaskier inhales. He supposes it’s a good thing to make sure you’re about to beat the right man, otherwise you just wind up with a wider pool of people seeking revenge. He shifts his shoulder under the stranger’s grip and says, “Yes. Unfortunately, I’ve finished my set, but if you have a request, I would be sure to include it tomorrow.”

A second figure- a slip of a man with dark curls and an upturned nose- peeks around the big man’s shoulder, a hopeful brightness in his eyes.

“It’s not your music we’re seeking, but your aid,” he pipes, lightly moving aside the first man, who steps to the side but keeps a hand on Jaskier, whether to keep him in place or prevent him from doing harm to his charge is hard to say. 

“Oh?” Jaskier tilts his head back, looking longingly towards the bar. “Would it be alright to start with drinks, then?” The crowd is thicker in that direction, and it would be easier for him to slip away and bolt. Jaskier has been accused of lacking any self-preservation skills, but even a child could tell you that requesting non-musical aid from a bard can only mean a few things, and the men don’t look particularly flirty.

The man laughs boldly, slapping his larger friend on the shoulder, earning a shadowy look. “My wonderful chaperone will take care of that while we find seats.” Without checking with his chaperone, whose mouth pulls into a displeased line, the man wraps an unwelcomed arm around Jaskier’s shoulder and steers him back towards the crowd. They move around bodies, the man pulling Jaskier in close enough that he can smell sage and sea salt on his tunic, and feel the bump of some sort of vial in his pocket when it bumps against Jaskier’s hip.

They find a clear table and claim their seats; the man slings both feet onto the third chair, holding it lackadaisically for his companion. It’s difficult to make conversation through the tavern’s chatter, so the man edges his chair in closer to Jaskier’s so the seats are nearly pressed together and their thighs brush each time one of them moves.

The chaperone returns, hunched protectively over the tankards he’s carrying, shooting warning looks at anyone who bumps him as he walks. The man slides his feet off the chair and smiles appreciatively as his companion dispenses the drinks. He takes a curious sip of his, face contorting once it hits his tongue, followed immediately with a loose grin.

“Awfully strong,” he smacks his lips and takes another gulp, visibly attempting to stop himself from pulling another face or twitching. He’s unsuccessful. Jaskier follows his lead and takes a gulp, not surprised to find it’s about the usual quality he gets in gritty taverns. The chaperone doesn’t seem too alarmed either. Apparently more used to the stuff than his employer, who keeps sipping at his tankard and flinching then going back for more.

Jaskier takes a long swallow, then clears his throat. “You said you needed my help?”

“Yes!” The man says, pushing his drink out of reach. “My name is Agloval, Prince of Bremervoord.”

Jaskier has never heard of Bremervoord, nor of a Prince Agloval, but he bows his head all the same and mumbles out a few formalities that he’s been spewing at nobles since he was a boy, the words tumbling off his tongue with practiced grace. When he raises his eyes, the prince looks satisfied, if not a little pleased, and raises a hand palm out, as if humbly easing the ceremony from Jaskier’s shoulders. 

“I’ve been traveling quietly, you understand, because I seek help in a matter of the heart, not of court.” He gestures at his clothes with a raised brow, as if they illustrate how low he has fallen for love, though to Jaskier’s eyes they are clearly made of fine materials and carefully tailored in a way no poor man’s clothes would be. He exchanges a look with the bodyguard, who doesn’t look very impressed with the disguise either, as he has probably had to deal with the consequences of their failing effect.

Unaware of their judgement, Agloval continues. “Bremervoord, as you know, rests beside the sea, so I have spent my whole life enjoying the offerings of the water. But nothing has ever compared to Sh’eenaz.” His eyes go fuzzy with emotion, and Jaskier brings his ale to his lips, already impatient. “I met her one day as she pulled herself from the water to sunbathe, and was immediately stunned by her majesty. She’s a mermaid, you see. A genuine mermaid.”

Jaskier’s mouth pops open and he lets the tankard hit the table. Of course, Geralt had told him that mermaids are real, and enough people housed along the seaside have sworn up and down that they’ve seen them that Jaskier more or less accepted their authenticity, as he often did the creatures from Geralt’s tales. But he’s never seen one with his own eyes.

“That does sound amazing,” he says, and the chaperone sends him a look of betrayal that Jaskier happily ignores.

“It truly was, minstrel,” Agloval sighs. Then his eyes sharpen and he leans forward. “I was drawn to her, and we’ve been meeting at the same stones ever since. Ludicrous as it may seem, I have fallen in love with the mermaid, and we plan to spend the rest of our lives together.”

He reaches into his pocket, retrieving the vial Jaskier had felt against his hip earlier. The contents are clear blue and frothy like seafoam, flecked with what might be sand, or flakes of some other unsavory ingredient. Agloval holds the vial out for Jaskier to see, then brings it closer to himself, swishing the contents lightly with a flick of his wrist. If Geralt were here, he’d probably cringe at the carelessness. Jaskier just watches.

“This elixir is going to help us do that,” Agloval says before returning the vial to his pocket. “I found a sorcerer who was willing to mix it for me, promising that drinking it will grant Sh’eenaz legs and allow her to survive on land. Now all I need to do is ask if she’s ready to get married and start our lives together.”

Jaskier draws in a breath. “Seems like you have everything in order. What do you need me for? A serenade?”

Agloval laughs. “I have heard your songs, minstrel, and know through the stories that you travel with the White Wolf.” His hand is resting protectively over his pocket, as if concerned that now that he’s revealed the contents, the other patrons of the tavern will be more inclined to steal it. It would take a foolhardy thief to steal a random potion from a stranger’s pocket, though nothing is impossible. Particularly if the thief thinks they can identify it or at least persuade a buyer it does something else.

Jaskier hesitates. “I have been known to do that, yes.”

The man’s intense expression splits into a pleased grin. “Then I would appreciate if you could fetch him for me.”

Jaskier blinks, then glances at the man’s chaperone, who has an apologetic look on his face, which is a nice change from guards who are always stony-faced and growling. “Well, what is it that you need a witcher for?”

He’s imagining the worst: a scenario where this man believes that a looming witcher will ensure he isn’t rejected, or will act as punishment if the mermaid refuses. The idea sits cold in Jaskier’s chest, and he feels himself pressing back against his chair, nerves twitching his hands. 

Agloval’s brow furls. “I told you, I plan to ask her to drink this elixir.” He pats his pocket as if Jaskier might have already forgotten what he’s carrying. 

Jaskier shrugs. “I still don’t understand.”

Exasperated, Agloval says, “We require a translator. Witchers know all the beastly languages.”

Jaskier pauses. “I don’t believe that’s true actually,” he says delicately, grating his teeth along his tongue in an effort to not laugh in this prince’s face. It’s a near thing. “This is a predicament. But I’m traveling alone. No witchers.”

He gestures widely at all the space around him that no witcher is taking up, and Agloval purses his lips.

“Do you not even know where I might find him?” Agloval asks, voice pitched higher with frustration, a light flush appearing across his cheeks and up the slope of his neck. Jaskier can only shake his head, carefully not indulging in the own painful squeeze of his heart.

The prince lifts his abandoned drink to his lips once more, face twisting sourly, before he rises to his feet, gesturing for his chaperone to follow. With a sigh, he does.

“That’s very unfortunate,” Agloval says. “If you do meet with him again, I’d appreciate you directing him to my home. It’s a desperate manner and I plan to pay generously for the trouble.”

Agloval turns and starts brushing past bodies, his chaperone close behind. An anxious flutter rushes up Jaskier’s chest, pressing him to his feet. And, because he’s a fool, Jaskier calls to the retreating back and says, “I may still be of some service to you.”

The men both stop, the prince glancing at him over his shoulder with interest. The chaperone’s face is pinched with what might be construed as sympathy but burns more like pity, and Jaskier pointedly doesn’t look at him.

Jaskier straightens his shoulders. “You see, mermaids love a good song, particularly one in their own language. Which I speak.” Agloval turns completely around to face Jaskier, arching his brow skeptically but doing nothing to hide the flicker of hope behind his eyes. Jaskier nods enthusiastically and charges ahead. “I attended Oxenfurt University, you know, and learning a second language is a standard for most studies. Language is very important for a bard.”

He strums his fingers on an imaginary lute and the prince’s eyes follow the motion. Confidence and speed go a long way for lying, and Jaskier’s heart rackets up at the slight ease to Agloval’s shoulders and the slow slide of a smile as it grows across his face.

Unable to stop himself, Jaskier says, “And it helps that I spent years traveling with a witcher who knew all the beastly languages and taught me some.”

“You should have said so from the start!” Agloval gleams, hurrying back to their table and yanking Jaskier into an engulfing hug, barreling the air from his chest. Over the prince’s shoulder, Jaskier can barely see the chaperone’s disapproving look and clear doubt. As long as he doesn’t throw aspersions, Jaskier doesn’t give a rat’s arse what he does with his face.

They return to sitting, Agloval pushing the remains of his tankard over to Jaskier in invitation, as if the bard should feel honored to drink after him. Jaskier gracefully ignores the offering as they iron out a plan; they’ll meet at the same tavern in the morning, and Jaskier will ride with them to the port in Bremervoord, where they will take to sea and find Sh’eenaz for their conversation. Once the contract is fulfilled, they will return to land and Jaskier will receive their agreed upon payment.

It’s a bit like being a witcher, he supposes, without all the hatred and fear directed at him.

The next day brings Jaskier to a ship named Królowa Morza, which glides and rocks through the ocean, heaved to-and-fro by roiling waves, not so far from land that he can’t see the spear of the coastline in the distance but enough that he won’t likely be able to swim back if the conversation goes poorly or if it turns out there’s no mermaid at all.

Which is disappointing, seeing as how he’ll probably get thrown overboard when Agloval finds out he can’t actually speak to Sh’eenaz.

Watching the water lap up along the bottom of the boat, spraying up at him and occasionally revealing the shadows of stalking fish below, Jaskier tries to eek out his motivation for being here, what urged him to call out after the prince when he was almost out of his hair and lie his way onto the ship. The obvious answer would be that he’s never seen a mermaid and certainly never spoken to one, but an uneasy pull in his stomach suggests that isn’t what did it.

He imagines what Geralt would tell him to do. He could pretend to get seasick and ask for a moment of privacy below deck. But what then? Should he pretend to be so sick that he can’t speak at all for the rest of the trip?

_There’s a lifeboat on the other side of the ship_ , fantasy Geralt reminds him, and Jaskier rolls his eyes. He’ll never make it to shore in that. Not before he dies from exhaustion or exposure or dehydration. Or the great ship he’s fleeing will blow him up.

Agloval leans over the edge of the boat beside him, his sudden company making Jaskier jolt upright. A quick glance around reveals that the prince is accompanied by several of his crew, who Jaskier suspects should be busy with other duties.

He licks his lips and says, “I should mention that the ocean is quite large so there’s more than one language.” Pride at how even and free of concern he keeps his voice blooms warm in his chest, and he tips his head to look sideways at his company.

Agloval doesn’t look nearly so pleased. “What?”

“Well, you know.” Jaskier pauses to look for inspiration in the pale, cloud pocked sky. “Like we have Common Speech and, um…Dwarvish. And Nilfgaardian. So, she might not speak the language or the dialect I’m familiar with. That’s all I’m saying. But it will probably be fine.”

Jaskier flashes a smile, holding it strong through the narrow look Agloval directs at him, only relaxing it once the prince moves from him towards the bow, his hands knotting nervously together.

The ship continues forward, and Jaskier continues to consider his options, unsure if he’s quivering from seasickness or anxiety. Gradually, the peaks of sea stacks and low plates of rock emerge near the horizon, lifting out of the water like whale bellies and warning sailors of rough terrain as they approach a small, green island. They drop anchor at a safe distance, the stone formations standing before them like massive guards, unflinching and patient.

Agloval hustles back to stand beside Jaskier, along with the man who had previously served as his chaperone and a springy, sharp-eyed woman, whose mouth curls into a dangerous smile when she catches Jaskier looking. He redirects his attention to the prince, who is practically bouncing on his heels, jabbing his finger out at the island, face almost feverish with excitement.

His other hand catches Jaskier’s elbow as he announces, “This is about where I saw her last.”

They wait, silently leaning over the edge of the ship and staring into the ocean’s clear basin, the rhythmic lap of waves keeping time. The rest of the crew moves behind them, going through their duties and watching with idle interest, happy to be ignored. Nothing happens and still, they wait. And wait, and wait. The prince stands straight-backed and determined, his certainty never flagging, though Jaskier feels the edges of his fear begin to lift, poking around the possibility and hope that Sh’eenaz doesn’t make her appearance and he doesn’t have to be exposed as a fraud.

Before he can get too comfortable with the idea, however, something shifts below. Agloval leans further forward, his dedicated chaperone’s hand snapping out and snatching the back of his belt to keep him from spilling off the ship, and Jaskier moves to look as well, curiosity winning over the sinking feeling in his gut.

A long, slippery golden figure glides forward under a wave, letting the force carry it along, then undulating and pulling back. For a moment, Jaskier feels fully enchanted, his heart lifting as the creature- a mermaid! - surfaces. Her hair is sleeked back, heavy with water, but still shining in shades of copper and cinnamon, bleached near-blonde at the top. Her eyes are upturned and slightly protruding, her mouth wide and pale. The most wonderous thing about her is the great, flat tail, which briefly snaps out of the water as she moves against a second wave before settling herself into a comfortable position so she isn’t at risk of being battered against the side of their ship. The tail seems to darken when it lifts from the water, but submerged glitters like gold coins, flickering under streaks of sunlight.

Agloval releases his breath in a heavy sigh, softening at the sight of her. The shipmates seem to sigh as well, though more out of amazement than anything tender. Jaskier himself takes a moment to admire the mermaid, expecting that she might be the last beautiful or amazing thing he ever sees.

“Sh’eenaz!” Agloval calls, and she responds with a trilling noise like a dolphin. It’s strange to hear from someone who, from this angle at least, looks nearly human, and several of the crew bandy back or straighten, the pleasure of seeing her apparently outweighed by the shock of her voice.

A beat passes and Jaskier worries that this is it, the language he is meant to translate. He opens his mouth, prepared to make something up or extend his apologies, further spinning his yarn about the diversity of languages under the sea and _sorry, this isn’t the one I’m familiar with_ , but is interrupted by a second, sweeter sound.

Sh’eenaz speaks, quick and excitedly, up into the air, her face pointed towards Agloval. The words are certainly not in Common; the dip and rise of the language is pitched high but not abrasive, instead whirling lovely and gentle like a well-played flute.

Jaskier listens and he understands that she says, “You came, Sweet Love!”

“Oh!” Jaskier’s mouth pops open for a moment, surprised and relieved. When he notices Agloval watching him expectantly he clears his throat and says, “It’s basically Elder. That’s wonderful. It’s really lovely. Like Elder, but melodic. No wonder the stories always have them singing.”

“And?” Agloval snaps, gesturing snappishly at his own ears.

Jaskier clears his throat. “Right. Apologies.” And then translates.

Agloval inhales sharply, then nearly launches over the side of the ship in glee. The chaperone tightens his hold, eyes pressing shut and mouth drawing into a firm, long-suffering line. Agloval leans back into the touch, eyes sparkling, and says, “She called me Sweet Love? That’s magnificent! Tell her about my plan!”

Jaskier does, licking his lips and leaning forward, speaking loudly to be heard over the crash of waves. Sh’eenaz listens attentively, her expression slipping from pleased surprise at being understood to greater and greater distaste as she bobs in the water. There is a definite otherness to her, but Jaskier knows how to read faces well enough to say that she isn’t happy.

“What do you think?” he asks once finished, cupping a hand around his ear to better hear. The chaperone sighs behind him, then snags his hand around the back of Jaskier’s doublet to keep him sturdy as well.

“Absolutely not!” Sh’eenaz hisses.

Jaskier hesitates. “Sorry, did you say no?”

“I said absolutely not!” she bellows, slapping the palms of her webbed hands down flat on the surface of a water, creating a loud snapping noise and sending out an agitated spray.

Jaskier blinks, says, “Alright, thanks,” then pulls back to meet Agloval’s eyes, which are wide with anticipation. The bard presses his lips together and tries to think of a gentle way to break the news, glancing at the chaperone who hasn’t released either of them from his hold, apparently still concerned that neither of them can stay on both feet. Probably fair.

“What did she say?” Impatient, Agloval presses his fist to the wooden wall.

Jaskier leans slightly away from him before answering. “She declined. Adamantly.”

The prince blanches. He swivels his head back over the side of the ship to look at his love, mouth agape, then swings back to glare at Jaskier. “What? No! Tell her again. Tell her why we must do this.”

“Certainly,” Jaskier mumbles, feeling distinctly uneasy. He leans over. Sh’eenaz looks back up at him expectantly and Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Hello. He said…you see, he was really hoping for this and he’s upset now. And he just wants you to know that the reason this is so important to him is that he loves you. Do you…love him? Because if not, that’s fine, but it might be best that we don’t draw it out.”

Sh’eenaz frowns. “This elixir is well-known among my people. It causes days of suffering for whoever takes it. Tail-splitting is agonizing. Do you understand?” She waits for Jaskier to nod before continuing. “I have a home. A family. Loved ones. I can’t leave them.”

Jaskier nods sympathetically, gesturing for her to wait as he turns to Agloval and explains. Agloval shakes his head, shutting his eyes and clenching his jaw against the translated words.

He says, “Pain is brief. Isn’t our love worth it?”

A sinking, ominous tug on Jaskier’s heart. “But what about her family?”

“It’s a sacrifice, I’m not denying that,” Agloval says, attempting to smooth his voice to a mild and benign softness and only managing to twist it into something almost authoritative. “But it’s the only way for us to be together.”

Jaskier pauses, the muscles of his throat tightening, before turning back to the mermaid. “He…believes that the sacrifices are worth it. But…I mean, if it’s too much, I understand. You shouldn’t feel pressured.”

A long moment passes as Sh’eenaz thinks, then she shakes her head, plastered hair dragging over his shoulders. “There’s another way. I’ve met a sea-witch who produces a similar potion that will painlessly give my Sweet Love a tail.”

Joy bubbles up Jaskier’s chest anew. “Ah! Alright, I’ll tell him.” He turns back to Agloval to explain but catches himself, running her idea through his head, and leans towards the mermaid to ask, “Sorry, but would this concoction also give him gills? Because otherwise he’ll drown.”

Sh’eenaz blinks, apparently startled and confused by the question. “No?”

Jaskier hums, thrown by her apparent dismissal of his question, and is about to ask if it provides some other magical way for the prince to breathe when a second pair of hands grips his shoulders and yanks him back roughly. He is spun around and pulled in closer to Agloval’s face as the man’s hands dig into his skin with bruising strength, shaking Jaskier agitatedly.

“What are you saying to her?” Agloval grits out. 

Jaskier presses his palms lightly to the other man’s shoulders, keeping his voice even. “I need elaboration on a very important point.”

“I don’t have you here for casual conversation. Don’t improvise!” With that, Agloval shoves Jaskier back towards the edge of the boat. His stomach thumps against the hard, wooden ledge, and he teeters for a second before the chaperone grabs him with a steadying grip.

Jaskier grinds his jaw for a moment, trying to calm himself. His voice is softer than it has any right to be when he asks, “You don’t want me to get the answer to my question?”

“I want the answer to _my_ question, minstrel. Nothing more!”

Jaskier tips his head. “Well, suit yourself then. She says she wants you to have a tail and join her in the sea.”

Agloval blinks. Looks flabbergasted, then infuriated. The skin along his neck is blotching pink as he puffs himself up to indignation. “Absolutely not! I have _land_ , I can’t just run off. Tell her the only way is for her to come with me. Legs!”

Jaskier rolls in his lips and sends the prince a contemptuous look. “I distinctly remember you saying that your love is worth the sacrifice. This seems like a fair compromise.”

Agloval’s eyes are absolutely alight with rage and he tangles his hands into the bard’s collar, nails scraping along pale skin, digging in hard over the blue line of a vein. “Who are you to give me advice? I don’t have you here to mediate! You’re a translator; translate and keep your comments to yourself!”

Jaskier shuts his eyes against the tide of anger, working to swallow around the pressure being applied to his throat. “Certainly.” Once the hand loosens, then fully releases him, Jaskier takes a long, expansive breath and turns back to face Sh’eenaz. Voice croaking, he says as primly as he can, “He’s a real bastard. Absolute stubborn shithead. You’re certain you want to spend your life with him?”

Sh’eenaz tilts her head, the shelf of her brow furling as she makes what he interprets as a displeased grunt. “What was his answer?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “He said he wouldn’t do it. See, because you have a family, but your Sweet Love has land. So, money. He won’t have a tail.” He considers, then adds, “But also, I didn’t mention the gills thing but that would be important. He’d need the gills to breathe.”

The pale, near-translucent skin of her cheeks blushes a dark red, and her nostrils, little more than slits near the center of her face, seem to expand into a flare. When she speaks, her voice is a low, humming sound that ripples through him like an alarm bell.

“He won’t do it? Of course, he won’t do it! Every day I wait near the surface for him. Then I crawl out onto the stones, sit in the cold where the air is heavy until my scales dry out! For him! For him! I have been giving from the moment we met, and he only knows how to take! Now he wants my ocean, my tail, my life and all my love without giving anything in return. Tell him I have nothing more I’m willing to give! Not without a little sacrifice in return!”

Slowly, Jaskier pulls himself up and faces Agloval. The man is seething, expression pinched as his eyes flit between Jaskier and the mermaid below, chest rising and falling heatedly. Jaskier says, “She’s upset. Angry. She feels like you’re asking for more than you’re willing to give.”

The color drains from Agloval’s face. He stands, mouth opening then shutting like a gulping fish, empty hands grabbing at the air, frightful with nothing to hold. Then, with an enraged shriek, he throws himself against the side of the ship, and would have gone completely over if not for the quick snag of his chaperone’s hand. Muscles and veins press out of the chaperone’s neck and he crests forward, keeping his boots planted against the wall and dropping his forehead between the prince’s shoulders, eyes locked shut. Fleetingly, Jaskier wonders if the chaperone loves him.

Agloval screams over the edge of the ship, aiming insults and pleas and demands down at Sh’eenaz, who barks right back up, neither of them understanding the other. Jaskier doesn’t bother to translate, just slinks to the ground, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees stars and listens to the nonsense that they bandy back and forth.

Then, Sh’eenaz roars, “I won’t sit here like a fool any longer! If you’re going to be like this, I’m not interested. There are better ways to spend my time!” She dives below the water with a splash, and Agloval, understanding her intent if not the words, howls.

He screams for some time before the chaperone pulls him from the side of the boat, murmuring in his ear, eyes blank as they stare out towards the ocean. Agloval stills, then slumps. Time passes. The crew shifts, pretends not to see, uncertain what to do in the light of a shattered heart, or whatever is happening on the upper deck of their ship.

~*~

The return to the docks is similarly uncomfortable to the trip out, though for entirely different reasons. The exchange between Agloval and Sh’eenaz left Jaskier feeling drained and uncomfortable, something quiet and sad nipping around the back of his head where he tries not to study it.

Agloval eventually rises, supported under the arm by his chaperone, who gently pats and rubs his shoulder, face softened with care. Jaskier watches from where he’s tucked himself away, keeping in the corner and, hopefully, out of sight. While the blame for his broken heart doesn’t belong to Jaskier, he’s had employers punish him for less; the party went poorly because the music wasn’t lively enough, my advances were denied because your voice wasn’t sweet. It’s easier for people to hold their grievances against someone else, rather than look inward.

Agloval and his chaperone disappear below deck for some time, and the crew goes about their work as silently as possible, lips sealed and eyes pointed seriously to their tasks, occasionally exchanging uneasy glances, likely worrying over concerns similar to Jaskier’s.

Once the prince emerges several hours later, however, his spirits have been lifted, face flushed and voice amplified by drink. The chaperone keeps a stubborn hand on his charge’s elbow, guiding him to the edge of the ship at his behest, jaw tight as Agloval shouts and swerves around the crew.

He tilts his chest over the wall and waves a merry hand towards the sky, voice bellowing over the waves as he shouts, “Fuck her then! What do I need a… what do I need a mermaid for? What do I need a scaly, wet bitch for? Eh, Redas. What do I need?”

The chaperone, Redas, tightens his grip. “Rest,” he says, and then tugs Agloval away from his precarious position.

Instead of following Redas’ lead, Agloval pulls against his hold, swinging around to point an accusing finger at the few people still milling around the upper deck. Some of the workers go still under the attention, shoulders tightening, while others pass a weary eye over their employer, then turn back to their work.

Agloval stumbles, then yells, words running together in a slur. “Mermaids! Mermaids! Sh’eenaz wasn’t worth shit to me, understand? She was little more than a warm mouth and a good tail! A good tale! Understand?”

Jaskier grits his teeth, pressing his back against the wall and doing his best to look small. Anger pops and sizzles in his chest, surging in hot sparks down his arms. He bites his tongue against the urge to shout back. _Just this once, stay quiet. Just this once._

Apparently displeased with the lack of agreement and sympathy, Agloval grabs at a passing crewman, fingers latching onto the man’s loose tunic and yanking him in closer so they’re eye to eye. Redas grunts, briefly attempting to loosen the prince’s hold on the man before thinking better of it and simply laying an appealing hand on his chest.

“Agloval,” he murmurs, voice pitched into a soothing hum, “relax. Let’s return to your chambers. You need to rest.”

Agloval shakes his head, jerking the man’s tunic. The fabric is loose around his torso, so the gesture does little to move the crewman, who purses his lips and retrains himself against retaliation. His flailing nearly sends the prince toppling into his victim’s chest and Redas takes the moment of imbalance to hoist his charge back so he’s propped against his shoulder, held in place. His hold on the crewman doesn’t drop.

Shaking his head, a desperate look in his eyes, Agloval continues his tirade. “Worthless, absolutely worthless. Do you hear me? I wasted time, and resources and my attention on that ungrateful whore. She was using me!”

The words spit out before Jaskier can stop himself. “You can’t possibly be surprised she rejected you.”

The heat of it draws in not only the attention of his attended target, but the shocked expressions from the rest of the crew, who shift uncomfortably where they stand, eyes wide and pitying. Redas closes his eyes.

Agloval sputters, then realizes who spoke and his voice goes cold. “No?”

In for a penny, Jaskier pushes away from the corner he’d been hiding in, straightening his back and meeting Agloval’s gaze. “You didn’t waste anything, according to her. If anything, you should be grateful she gave you the time of day and that she even considered you—”

Agloval cuts him off with a wild swipe of his hand through the air. “She wouldn’t have wanted for anything. I could have given her—”

Jaskier snorts. “You acted like she was a toy. Like something new and fun to show off in your unimportant, forgettable little castle.”

Agloval bristles against the accusation, mouth splitting wide with a sharp, insulted breath. “I loved her!”

“No, you didn’t!” Jaskier snaps. “You wanted, and so you took and took and took without bothering about her happiness, like a spoiled child. That’s not how you treat people you love!”

His breath heaves, hindered under the weight of his fury, and his hands, pressed down into fists against his thighs, tremble with effort.

The prince snaps his mouth shut and leans back against Redas, who hasn’t yet opened his eyes. Jaskier watches the muscles work in Agloval’s throat as he swallows, inhaling with a shudder, blanching as if Jaskier’s words had been physical attacks. A moment passes like this, tension crackling in the air as everyone waits.

When Agloval does speak, his voice is surprisingly clear and even, as if his emotions have been sapped by his intent. “You’ve performed very poorly today, minstrel. And now, not only do you raise your voice at me, but you insult my character. If my castle, my land and my people, are unimportant and forgettable, you likely won’t want to enjoy its services. Off my ship.”

A gesture, followed by a flurry of motion. Hands lock like vices onto Jaskier’s arms, yanking them behind his back and turning him towards the edge of the ship. Before he can orient himself, the bodies, two crewman who carefully don’t meet his eyes, slam his front against the wall he had levied over earlier to see Sh’eenaz. He grunts at the bruising force, then freezes, staring down at the dark waves below, overwhelmed by their roiling depths.

_I’m going to die_ , Jaskier thinks, then chokes out, “Don’t!” as he tries to wrench around and escape his holders. Their grips only tighten and fear seethes in his gut, overtaking any remaining anger.

Agloval’s voice creeps from behind him, prickling and final. “I treat my people fairly and kindly. You’ve made it clear that you are not one of my people.”

And with that, Jaskier is hefted from his feet and dropped off the side of the ship. The waves rise to catch him with an icy slap, stealing his breath in an unsympathetic punch. There’s no time to adjust; a mountain of water heaves against him, heedless of his flailing arms, and smacks him against the ship, forcing the final bubbles of air from his lungs. Jaskier wriggles blindly, mouth popping open in a scream that is swallowed by the ocean.

He is moved again and again, shoved to the side then pulled down as if a creature has hooked onto his ankle and is sinking him. Hands outstretched in a futile reach for the glittering moonlight overhead, fingers flexing like claws.

Lower, lower.

Jaskier’s lungs twitch behind his ribs, sucking and desperate for him to inhale. He shuts his jaw against the need, kicking himself up and failing in a final effort to save himself, stars blinking at the corners of his vision as he recedes into the inky black.

Warmth, unexpected, wraps around his wrist. For a confused and fearful moment, Jaskier tries to yank away from it, animal thoughts blistering through his head and moving his body by instinct. The warmth expands, unhindered by his efforts, and then slides around his waist. He is pressed firm against something. Motion, cold licks of water rushing past.

The thing holding him undulates once, twice, and then Jaskier breaks the surface. He feels heavy and unwieldy, unable to open his eyes through exhaustion. The hold tightens once more and he is heaved up and over, the rest of him manipulated out of the water. Rough stone scrapes down his back and he splutters, fingers gripping with the desire to catch himself, to take back control.

Stillness. Air hits his skin, summoning gooseflesh and wracking shivers. Jaskier gasps. Inhales, exhales hungrily, passing through him with painful, ugly cries. And then a noise, a nervous tittering that clips and peals into a warble.

“Are you hurting? Can you breathe?” Sh’eenaz asks, her hands frictionless as they rub up and down his sleeves.

Jaskier’s eyes squint open. The world is momentarily blurred, then crystallizes into a pale face. He tries to answer her but can’t get his bearings to get closer to words than little coughing hiccups. Sh’eenaz frowns thoughtfully, then grabs his shoulder and tips him onto his side, pounding on his back with the flat of her hand. Hard enough to hurt.

“Don’t,” he croaks, unable to roll away on his own, “didn’t swallow water.” Her abuse continues and he repeats the words in choppy Elder.

Her hand stills, then gingerly returns him to his back. Coppery hair tumbles down into his face, and Jaskier can do nothing but breathe and stare into her bulging eyes, dizzy and entranced by the large irises.

She waits for his breathing to even out, then asks, “You’re well?”

Jaskier considers, then nods weakly. “You saved me,” he says, ignoring the drool leaking over the corner of his mouth.

If Geralt were here, he’d ask why Jaskier wants to drown so badly. But he isn’t here, and Jaskier excuses the fantasy as a symptom of nearly dying. Again. 

They sit in silence for a while longer. Sh’eenaz eventually sits up, her scaly hip pressed against Jaskier’s shoulder and he closes his eyes, wishing he could absorb her heat, if only she had enough to borrow. He breathes, and breathes, and doesn’t cry. He’s getting much better about that. Not every near-death experience requires tears. He’s had enough by now that he should be over the shock.

Once he feels well enough, Jaskier pushes against his elbows and slouches up, then forward, pressing a hand to his aching chest. He glances sideways at Sh’eenaz, who is staring at him with open curiosity. He’d be more frustrated if he hadn’t been gawking at her earlier.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, struggling to make the lilting noises of Elder around his savaged throat. Still, she seems to understand and nods in return. He continues, “Were you following the ship?”

A pause accompanies her mildly embarrassed expression. “Hmm. I was.”

Jaskier considers. “It’s hard to let go, sometimes.”

Her laughter is sharp. “It shouldn’t be. It was silly of me to think he cared. That maybe he regretted his choice.” Sh’eenaz crosses her arms over her chest, as if the pale barrier will protect what’s left of her damaged heart. Jaskier nods solemnly.

“It shouldn’t be, but it is. It always is.”

They sit together on the stone stacks for some time before Jaskier is willing to return to the water. They dip back in, Sh’eenaz hooking a supporting hand around the back of his doublet to tug him along on his back, mindfully keeping his head above the water as she swims. Jaskier watches the stars above as he’s dragged, caught between shame and amusement over his own situation and wondering what it might look like to outsiders.

What should take the rest of the night is completed in hours, and Jaskier rolls out onto the sand with the final push of the tide, Sh’eenaz watching dutifully a few yards from the shore. Jaskier lays very still for a moment, gathering his strength to sit up and wave appreciatively back at her. She trills a final time, waving back, and then rolls beneath the water, leaving bubbles in her wake.

~*~

In his song, the mermaid does choose to change herself, to make a deal for human legs and walk the earth beside her lover, because what is a little sacrifice for love? She wobbles onto the shore and stands for the first time, looking up and down the plane of sand for the man, only to discover that he is no longer there. Her lover chose to change himself as well, making a deal for gills and a forked fish tail before diving into the sea to find her. Now she stands by the rocks and he pulls himself up, the same but so different, and they’ve missed each other once again and lost so much more in the process. But they laugh and hold each other, knowing that they were both willing to make that sacrifice.

What is love without a little sacrifice? Jaskier certainly knows no other way.

~*~

The dancehall is as ornate as any other Jaskier has performed in; marble and gold with great archways adorned in colorful draperies, bountiful food and drink set down on tables and walked around by silent servers who don’t raise their heads to meet the guests eyes, enormous skirts trailing gracefully along the floor as dancers twirl, their jewelry catching the light and sparking out in bright colors. The finery nobles enjoy and tout around with pride.

It has been a while since Jaskier has performed for such an audience; lively and bouncing along to his music, fluttering their eyes at each other and pretending for a brief dalliance that this is all that matters, if they don’t truly give in and believe it. As he prepares, sipping on good wine and rejecting offered hors d’oeuvres, an uncharacteristic anxiety twinkles through his gut. His hands twist up and down the frets, needlessly and soundlessly rehearsing chords he’s known for more than half his life until he joins the rest of the performers on the platform, tacking on his most eager smile and setting about bringing more life to the party.

Soon, though, his body eases into the familiar position of performance and his gut stops its unhappy wriggling, allowing him to enjoy the heat and rise of standing before a mass of people who react joyously to his singing, moving their bodies to the hum and beat of the band.

Jaskier works through the first part of his set, then passes his place on to another musician, who steps forward with flushed and gleaming enthusiasm. The man’s voice is pitched higher than Jaskier’s, catching the ears of several attentive listeners who tilt their heads at the change before continuing to nod along without complaint.

He winds through the shift of bodies and ballgowns, angling his shoulders to best prevent bashing into anyone and causing some sort of wealthy, half-drunk upset, and makes his way to one of the traveling servers. The woman’s placating expression morphs when she sees who she is handing a drink to, a hint of suppressed excitement warming her eyes, and she bows a little awkwardly and murmurs out a quick _master bard_ before being summoned by another thirsty attendee. 

Jaskier moves along to the long table in the back, where he picks through the nibbles of food in search of something good but not so filling. He’s staring down a basin of caviar, debating the advisability of eating it before returning to the stage, when someone passes close behind him, fabric brushing against his back. Easily ignoring the touch as an accident, he decides against the fish roe and moves instead to a tray of roasted vegetables, deeming them safer.

Before he can begin to plate them, the touch comes again, firmer now, and a deep voice husks in his ear, “Can’t say I ever expected to see you again.”

Jaskier wheels around. His heart gives a heavy thump and he knots his fingers protectively around his lute strap, mind twisting at the voice. Recognition, then calm. The witcher looks at him with knowing amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching as he tries to resist a smile.

Caught between pleasure and disappointment, Jaskier can only exhale the man’s name. “Kolgrim.”

Unable to resist any longer, Kolgrim lets his mouth peal into a grin that looks nearly painful, though the lines around his eyes are warm. “Hello, bard.” 

A laugh shoots from Jaskier’s mouth, and he catches it with a brief press of his hand. Kolgrim arches a curious brow. Jaskier drops the hand and, shaking his head, says, “I must be the only person in the whole world who comes across witchers so easily. I know an old sorceress who has only met one.”

The witcher huffs out a laugh and starts to speak when several other bodies bustle up to the table, giggling and clumsily poking around for something to feast on. His eyes twist into an expression of narrow disapproval, and Jaskier, familiar with that look on another face, gestures to a less occupied space near the edge of the dancehall. Kolgrim nods, and then leads the way through the moving crowd, large within the space but somehow managing to slink through without causing a ruckus or grabbing too much attention.

Burrowed into their shadowy corner, which is likely more popularly used for licentious means, Kolgrim’s shoulders drop. He leans against the wall so he can keep an eye on the crowd, attention flicking between Jaskier and something in the stir, keen but unstressed. 

Jaskier follows his line of sight but doesn’t see anything particularly eye catching. Giving up, he settles against the wall beside Kolgrim, readjusting his lute so the strap holds it at his hip, and takes a moment to study him. Largely unchanged, as expected, though his clothes are of a quality suitable for the environment- deep gray, nearly black- and his dark hair is loose from its bun, brushing his shoulders. Split ends, Jaskier notes, and chopped slightly uneven, but clean and probably soft. His eyes are a green-tinged yellow, and framed by fine lines. His smile is disarming and bordered on either side by surprising dimples.

Jaskier keeps his hands still. “Are you enjoying the party?”

“Not really, no,” Kolgrim snorts. “I’ve been enlisted as an overqualified bodyguard for the noble’s young brat,” He gestures discretely to the far side of the room, in the direction he’d been so intent on.

Now Jaskier notices a girl barely out of childhood, her fiery hair in curls around narrow shoulders, her cheeks rosy with laughter that is gloriously loud and ungraceful. Another girl is holding her hands, pushing and pulling her in a puerile mockery of dance, eliciting another round of laugher as they trip and nearly clatter to the ground, caught in their own skirts. 

Jaskier furrows his brow. “Protect her from what?” he asks uneasily, imagining what might be after someone so young and spirited. It reminds him of… _well_. It brings up old memories.

Kolgrim waves a dismissive hand. “Just paranoia. No one is after her any more than they’re after any insignificant nobleman’s daughter.”

Jaskier hopes that’s true; he hates to imagine the girl in danger. He looks at her once more to see that the crowd is parting for her and her friends as they push to the table he and Kolgrim had just been perusing, beet red and lined with delight. Parties at Lettenhove had been much smaller and more orderly than this, and the attendees had never bothered to move out of his way. Then again, Julian and Roark were rarely so boisterous when there was company, and were usually placed at the head table beside their parents, where it was impossible to get away with anything. 

Kolgrim turns to face Jaskier more fully, apparently unconcerned about the lord of the manor accusing him of slacking in his duties, drawing the bard from his thoughts. “You famously run with the White Wolf, but he never seems to be around when I find you.”

“I no longer _run_ with the White Wolf,” Jaskier grumbles, trying and failing to keep the thick emotion from his voice.

A line forms between Kolgrim’s brows as he processes this. Then he gives Jaskier a once over, his features losing their tension at whatever he finds. Something heavy and sad fleets across his face, there and gone before Jaskier has time to interpret it.

He says, “Ah. I understand.”

A chill trickles down Jaskier’s spine and he sets his shoulders, turning slightly away from the witcher. “Do you? That’s lovely.”

“As a witcher myself,” Kolgrim says, warmth returning to his voice, though his eyes fog over with an unnamable edge, “I do know how these things tend to go. I hope it was amiable.”

Jaskier swallows. _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands_. “Not in the least.”

Kolgrim nods knowingly. “Unfortunate.”

They hurry the conversation to lighter topics. Jaskier probes the witcher into telling him a few stories, cheerfully inserting fantasy details in the spots Kolgrim glosses over, painfully familiar with the habit to hold back and resist, or at least similar poor storytelling ability. Kolgrim comments on Jaskier’s songs, charging through a few lines of lyric in an effort to tell the bard which was his favorite, and then lightly cuffing him when Jaskier can’t help but tease. Their voices drop lower, their words sweeter as they step along the line of flirtation, leaning in closer and almost fully absorbed in their fragile little bubble.

It feels good to be around someone like Kolgrim. Someone like….

Eventually, Jaskier must return to the stage, and he does so with a refreshed fervor and a slightly heavier heart. During the set, he can’t help but repeatedly turn his attention to the corner he’d left Kolgrim in, where the witcher remains throughout, focus bandying between Jaskier and his charge. If he sings faster than usual, if he silently urges the partiers to hurry up and fill themselves with drink, or wander off for more private ventures, if he wishes the whole thing would just come to an end so he can get off the stage and return to the quiet warmth and steady rhythm of Kolgrim’s company, well, Jaskier can hardly be blamed. He has earned some pleasure, he thinks.

When finally, finally, the hall is empty enough that Jaskier can leave and the little girl is tucked away in her own chambers, freeing Kolgrim as well, they quickly go together to collect their pay, then part from the manor side by side, like an unspoken agreement.

Jaskier feels warm and pleasant, a bit floaty from singing and dancing for hours. He hasn’t enjoyed himself so much in a long time. He doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want to be alone again. Doesn’t have to be. That knowledge is filling and hot in his belly, excitement keeping his feet light on the dirt path.

They dip into the stables where Kolgrim left his horse. It’s larger and better kept than most of the stables Jaskier has been in, with the animals tucked into their cells, happily gnawing on hay and buckets of oats, and an open swathe of aisle between the rows, curious, massive heads ducking above the latched doors to see who has come to visit.

Kolgrim talks briefly with the stablehand while Jaskier occupies himself rubbing velvety noses and buffering searching mouths, chuckling to himself. Coin passes from one hand to another, and Kolgrim quietly steps up behind Jaskier, reaching out to pat the horse before guiding Jaskier to his own.

She is thick-muscled and somewhat lazily happy to see her rider, ears flitting when Kolgrim hums out a honied greeting. Her fur is a beigey yellow, her mane and tail the color of light cream, somehow kept clean and tidy despite the filth she undoubtedly has to wade through trudging from one hunt to another. _Witchers and their horses_ , Jaskier thinks with an eyeroll. Apparently, that isn’t a trait strictly attributed to those of the Wolf School. Maybe it’s similar to soldiers keeping their boots in order.

Jaskier pat, pat, pats her side once she’s led out by the bridle, wishing that he still carried sugar cubes in his pockets and whispering out a quick apology that makes Kolgrim laugh.

He asks, “What’s her name?” expecting an answer forthwith and easy, as it always has been between him and Geralt. Every horse is, has been, and always will be Roach.

But Kolgrim goes quiet, chin ticking out thoughtfully in a way that makes Jaskier think that the horse hasn’t been given a name until this very moment, when Kolgrim will be assigning one on the spot.

Still, Kolgrim says, “Wheat,” with such confidence, as if it’s really the only possibility and he’s known the whole time, and it’s absolutely ridiculous and silly and wonderful, so Jaskier grabs the witcher and, with a quick scan for the suddenly and thankfully absent stablehand, kisses him. Sloppy but heartfelt.

Kolgrim laughs against his lips and presses closer to Jaskier, walking him back until he bumps into a post. Jaskier inhales sharply and brings his hands up so his fingers tangle in the dark threads of hair, deepening the kiss with a scrape of teeth.

And then, and then, and then.

~*~

Jaskier wakes in the morning to the sound of snorting horses and a thick shawl wrapped around his shoulders, tight and warm where the previously occupied absence beside him is cold. He’s reclined over a loose pile of hay in the back of a horse stall, and when he tilts his head, he can see the slim ankles of a neighbor standing stalwart, waiting for its rider. To his right, his lute case is neatly tucked against the wall, bordered by his coin purse and carefully folded clothes. The stall door is courteously shut.

He sits up slowly with a strange hollowed out feeling in his stomach. A disjointed, fragmented discomfort that seems to press up into the core of his ribs, not burning or aching but horribly present. After a moment’s consideration, he pulls his legs under himself and stands, rotating his back to work out the stiffness. The nearest horse peaks its head over to watch him with half-interest, ears briefly twitching in his direction.

The shawl smells like horse- Wheat had probably been its regular bearer, and now the fabric is infused with the sweet, earthy memory of her, along with a hint of cloves, which is somehow distinctly Kolgrim.

Jaskier feels momentarily rootless, caught between a nameless emotion and something heavy like guilt. He rarely feels bad about his trysts- he makes sure everyone has a good time and walks away with a pleasant memory, even if he winds up getting run out or screamed at, and it isn’t really his business what goes on in his lovers’ private lives or what happens after he leaves, nor if they are with him as an act of betrayal to another. He can’t control that and, frankly, isn’t sure he cares. But now he feels distinctly like he’s done something wrong, though not to himself, nor Kolgrim.

Senseless pain. Jaskier doubts he’ll ever see Kolgrim again, though he supposes at this point anything is possible. He’s not sure if he cares either way.

Jaskier presses the shawl to his face and inhales, then hangs it on a nearby hook as he dresses, and then finally drapes it on his forearm to keep it from getting caught under the strap of his lute case as he hoists it over his shoulders.

Knocked loose by his ministrations, a thrice-folded square of paper flutters from the shawl’s overlay, sweeping through the air and under the stall door’s gap, dancing away in the dust. Jaskier jolts, then bursts forward after it, catching it with a quick stamp of his boot before another breeze or wayward horse exhale can carry it away.

He bends to pick it up, feeling the worn softness of paper under his thumb, then opens it gradually as if a careless motion might rend it apart. Few words, scrawled in thin, difficult handwriting, the ink slightly smeared in haste. _Send letters to Crippled Kate’s_. Jaskier pauses; the name sounds familiar, and he lets it bounce around his head for a moment before it clicks. Crippled Kate’s is a brothel in Novigrad. Huh.

Regardless of the odd location and the questions it brings, the underlying message is also clear. Keep in touch, write, don’t forget about me.

Jaskier’s heart gives a heavy thump and he shivers, then makes his way out of the stables and back to his room at the nearby inn, keen to collect the rest of his belongings and return to the road.

~*~

Summer is beginning to show. It’s warm enough now that Jaskier walks down the road with his doublet packed away and his undershirt unclasped over his chest, the gauzy fabric nearly translucent with sweat and his throat clenching uselessly around thirst. When he’s gone as far as he can for one day, he dips into the trees, sighing at the near-immediate relief of the shade, and navigates around until he walks upon a lazy stream.

He collects some water in a traveling pot, then moves over to a patch nearby that is almost bare of grass and occupied by stones circled around a pile of ash. Someone else’s campsite from some time ago, now safely available for him to take advantage of. He sets his things down and then meanders below the trees, picking up fallen twigs and breakable branches that he brings back and uses to build a fire.

While his pot works into a boil, he returns to the stream and splashes cold water over his face and neck, closing his eyes at the blissful chill, relieved to wash away some of the sweat. He doesn’t have the stomach for hearty food right now, so doesn’t bother setting traps. His are significantly less successful than Geralt’s ever were anyway. He usually settles for rations or herbs and vegetables when he’s on the road, saving richer food for when he reaches a town or city.

Satisfied with what the stream offers, he sets up a rather threadbare campsite; the fire, his bedroll, and his bag within reach. Once the water bubbles up, he takes the pot from over the flame and sets it aside to cool before transferring it to his waterskin. He eats a little, then leans back against a tree as far from the radiating heat of the fire as he can manage.

He gets out his notebook and pokes around with composing, though the words don’t come as readily as they use to, or, when they do find their way to him, are ink-slow and morose. His plucky songs don’t have the same essence as when he was having adventures every week. The unfairness of that, and the lack of choice in it, burns in his chest, and he has to inhale harshly against it.

Maybe the answer is to start trailing along after random travelers and adventuring groups the way he used to.

The sun drops out of sight. Jaskier feels edgy and restless with no one to talk to, thoughts and words passing without root, buzzing along the curve of his skull and flowing out, lost into the night air with nothing to attach to. Hoping to ease his discomfort or at least distract himself, he pulls out his lute and plays for himself, eyes staring dully into the black forest before him, snagging on the rustling push of wind through the leaves.

The canopy above does a fair job of covering the moon, leaving Jaskier in nearly pitch darkness when he finally gives up and drops onto his bedroll to sleep. It takes a long time but eventually he does doze. There are a few false starts where he begins to tip into sleep when he thinks he hears the thump, thump, thump of heavy boots through the woods and jumps awake reaching for his dagger, heart skipping only to find himself alone, the noise only existing in his imagination.

Then he jumps awake, startled hands beating around blindly in the dirt in search of the repeatedly displaced weapon, when he sits up and finds not the same empty space his rational mind always returns to, but…well.

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat and he has to bite down against a shocked whine. Standing tall and pale against the border of black tree trunks and dangling leaves, carrying a dead rabbit by the legs, it’s scruffy fur damp with its own blood, is Geralt.

Jaskier sits up completely and stares at him, mouth agape. He doesn’t say anything and neither does Geralt, who only glances at him with the slightest acknowledging nod before taking the final steps into camp and dropping to a crouch on the other side of the fire, unsheathing a dagger and busying himself with preparing the rabbit to cook.

Geralt. _Geralt_. A ringing trembles through Jaskier’s hearing and he watches blankly, his ears seeming to burrow closer to his brain, as if all of him is pulling in closer to his center in an effort to escape or hide. He can do little more than watch as Geralt goes about his work peeling the fur and skin down, easy as removing a glove.

Eventually, Geralt tips his head to look over the camp, briefly meeting Jaskier’s eyes before asking, “You already got water?”

Jaskier inhales, mouth still dropped open, and considers just saying yes and moving on, pretending that nothing happened and this is completely normal and acceptable behavior. In a way, it is. They part ways, they reunite. That’s the way it’s always been. Why wouldn’t Geralt just fall back into step with Jaskier like they always have, regardless of harsh words and lengthy, painful absence? Maybe it’s better to silently forgive, to dance around acknowledgement and just go back to the regular swing of things. If life can return to normal, maybe Jaskier can pretend whatever he needs to pretend.

Instead, he sputters, “What the fuck?”

Geralt’s brow furls and he stares back inquisitively. It sends a little dart of frustration through Jaskier, who moves to join him by the fire, not thinking about how silly and mushed he must look, with his hair sticking up in sleepy tufts and the spot of chin just below the right corner of his lip slightly sticky with drool.

It’s unbearably hot. Jaskier notes with some amazement that Geralt doesn’t seem to be sweating at all, even when he is still adorned in thick armor and hasn’t bothered to tie his hair back. Sometimes he did that in the summer; yanked all his hair back with a leather band, exposing the muscled plane of skin at the back of his neck. Sometimes Jaskier would stare as if spellbound by that strangely vulnerable display, and would think about kissing the fine protrusion of bone, of tangling his fingers into the hair at his nape and biting.

Now Geralt just copes, and he does it with ridiculous ease. Meanwhile, Jaskier is hot enough that he considers slipping off his pants, and would if the moment weren’t so tense.

Geralt rises and takes the rabbit’s skin a little out of the way to dry out. Failing at subtlety, Jaskier reaches out and brushes his ankle as he walks by. No reaction to the silver ring.

Geralt snorts, but doesn’t otherwise respond. Jaskier would have expected a slightly stronger and potentially more negative reaction to him suggesting that Geralt might be some sort of creature, or at least a comment about Jaskier apparently being put-off or afraid of him, though Jaskier isn’t sure how he feels about this at all. Relieved? Angry?

Overwhelmingly curious; that’s the easiest place to land. Jaskier watches Geralt and waits for some sort of explanation, but the witcher rids himself of the rabbit skin and then sits back down without a word. Geralt skewers the rabbit on a spit and sets it over the fire to roast.

“Geralt!” Jaskier snaps, and when Geralt looks at him there’s a smirk on his face, like he’s just teasing, like he’s said something that he finds very clever and is waiting for Jaskier’s reaction.

Jaskier should say _you can’t just show up_ but he doesn’t know that Geralt can’t, or that he doesn’t want him to, that he doesn’t want it to be that easy. All Jaskier is certain of is that he needs an explanation. A conversation about what happened, maybe an apology, is perhaps desirable but not necessary. Probably. But it’s been too long to just pretend it didn’t happen. 

Jaskier asks, “Did something happen?”

Geralt laughs, then, but it isn’t his usual laugh, deep and throaty. It’s harsh. It is mean. Jaskier swallows, and. Geralt speaks, voice hardly more than a growl, turning those amber eyes on Jaskier like little barbs. “Seems that way.” And then he pulls the rabbit from the fire and twists off a leg.

Jaskier feels shame rise up in his gut, though he doesn’t know why. Geralt stares at him, then a wide grin pulls across his face, revealing blood in his teeth.

“Are you hurt?” Jaskier asks, but his voice is so small, and he’s so warm.

Geralt shakes his head. “No. I’m not hurt.” Jaskier looks at the rabbit, thinks maybe it’s a little undercooked. Or a lot undercooked. Blood is dripping down from it’s cracked bone, gravity doing the work a still heart can’t.

Jaskier’s eyes jerk back to refocus on Geralt when the witcher makes a choking noise. He has a hand pressed just beneath his ribs and he’s sloped forward, back a dark arch behind the fire, hair falling forward to cover his brow. Another pained groan, and Jaskier can see that his black armor, aided by the blanket of nighttime, has been concealing a blooming of blood.

Jaskier is sitting close to Geralt now, moving so fast he’s hardly aware of it. He grabs at Geralt’s hands and tries to yank them away from the wound so he can see the full extent of the damage, but Geralt fights him, presses harder into his own side as if he can mend himself with only his palms. 

Heart flittering madly in an effort to lodge itself in his throat, Jaskier’s voice is tight and breathless when he asks, “Why didn’t you say anything? Geralt, let me help!”

With a loud snarl, Geralt roughly shoves Jaskier away from him. Jaskier yelps and topples back, just catching himself before he dips back into the fire and _Melitele’s crown he’s fucking hot_. Sweat is beading along his brow, tickling its way down, leaving an itch in its wake as he absently swipes it away with his sleeve, wide eyes locked on Geralt’s, lost and tumbling through the shock of amber.

Stubborn, Jaskier tries to go for the wound once more, but when he reaches out Geralt growls at him, growls like a wolf, more animal than he’s ever been, a mad look twisting his face. Despite himself, Jaskier stills.

Geralt’s breath seethes between his teeth. He watches Jaskier closely, like the bard poses some sort of threat, like he’s a predator and Geralt, with all his mutations, is the prey. Geralt pulls deeper into himself, coiled for a fight as he grits out, “Don’t touch me! For fuck’s sake, Jaskier! Why would I want your help? Look what you do!”

Jaskier jerks back as if struck, mouth falling open and worthless, bringing his hands up to his chest. In the flicker of motion, he catches a bright gleam of red and lifts his hands, half-wrangled into nervous fists, into the light. They are smeared with blood. Shiny, sticky, wet by the firelight. Geralt’s blood. And now a biting pain in his own palms. His breath catches in his throat as his hands spring open and Jaskier groans, low and feeble, because his nails, always neatly trimmed, are now long, pointed claws.

He holds them away from himself, close to sticking them into the flames. “I don’t understand. How...?” but when he looks up Geralt is gone, leaving just a blotted, crimson stain in the dirt where he had sat. Jaskier rises with a jolt, shouts, “Wait! Wait, Geralt! Don’t!”

He stumbles around the stain, wildly searching through the shivering trees for a glimpse of pale hair or studded armor. Nothing, nothing. Jaskier’s boot catches on the stone barrier of the fire and he crashes down, sending ash and rabbit corpse flying. No pain. The fire dances for a moment, writhing in the air, and then settles.

Face pressed to the ground, Jaskier finds himself within an inch of a button sized droplet of blood. He stares at it for a moment, then turns his head up to see a second drop a little further away, and then another, and another. A trail.

He blinks, already stepping alongside the drops, eyes locked on the ground, flickering around for the next part of the trail as he tracks it. As he leaves the fire behind, Jaskier is plunged into darkness, and it becomes more difficult to see the trail before him.

“Geralt!” he screams, sweeping his hands into the open air before him, fingers scraping and bumping on tree bark as he goes. Branches and bushes stand along the corners of his vision, crouched and sturdy like biting creatures, snatching out to grab him as he walks blindly.

_Don’t go_ , he thinks, mouth suddenly too twisted to release his pleading. Tears run over his cheeks, meeting in a dripping point at his chin and leaving a wet patch along his collar, and heavy, burdened breaths crash in and out of his chest, more like attacks than relief.

Then, deep into the black vault of space to his right is the thump, thump, thump of heavy boots through the trees, snapping sticks underfoot as they go. Jaskier nearly wails but the sound emerges as little more than a stifled whimper as he turns and goes after the footsteps.

Jaskier gets closer and closer, calling out for Geralt, and then—

He trembles awake, jaw clenched and his hands bunched into fists. He’s shivering, sweat mixing poorly with the night air. Very still and quiet, he stays there, his breath shuttering out in desperate puffs. He doesn’t sit up, but shifts his eyes around the camp. No rabbit, no blood, no Geralt.

Completely alone, Jaskier sobs.

~*~

Word spreads fast in a small town and it isn’t long before Jaskier hears about the beast. He is drinking at a tavern, rubbing at his sleepy eyes and attempting to flirt with the barkeep, when the whispering, gossiping tones of the locals crest through the ordinary dining room chatter. For a moment he only eavesdrops idly, most of his attention still on the man refilling his tankard. But then one word catches and crystallizes with bright clarity in his mind, snapping his focus to the little corner table circled by tired farmers and merchants. _Witcher_.

“We need a damn witcher,” says a woman as she brings the corner of her apron up to dab at spilled beer, face lined with worry. “No one else can take care of it.”

Another voice, this one from an older woman, whose steel-gray hair is twisted into a loose and wispy braid, grumbles, “No one else is _willing_.” A rumble of resigned agreement, followed by several others starting in on the local lords and their lack of action, lack of care.

Unable to resist, Jaskier nods his thanks to the barkeep, who arches a brow but readily lets him go as he slips from his stool and sidles over to the crowded table. Several sets of eyes jump to him, narrowed with suspicion or curiosity as Jaskier makes his way forward, pushing past several bodies until he can rest his hands on the tabletop.

“Hello,” he says as breezily as possible, pretending that he belongs. The act is met with a few derisive sighs. “I heard you talking about some sort of trouble?”

Despite their distrust of an outsider, the villagers readily answer Jaskier’s question, eager to be heard and to express their fears, even to a stranger dressed like an ornament. One of the men says that he saw the creature one day skulking around, watching hungrily as some tradesman rode by on their horses, and that he called out to them in warning but was too late to keep them from being torn apart and devoured. The man’s lip is quivering and his voice is hardly more than a gasp by the time he has finished his telling. Several hands reach out and rest on him, rubbing his shoulders, dabbing his tears, and offering stiff drinks.

Jaskier waits for him to catch his breath, then asks, “Could you describe the beast to me? With as much detail as possible, please.”

The man nods, eyes dulling as he slips into the memory. “Aye. It was…big. Stood on its back legs like a man, but had…horns. And red eyes. Like a bat. It looked like a bat. And its teeth were long and pointed, but spaced out. It looked like a bat!” He turns to his fellows, the whites of his eyes clear all around like a startled horse, voice building frantically. They shush and soothe him, turning to look at Jaskier as if he might have the answers. He _might_.

Jaskier considers this, tongue darting out over his lip. Big bat thing that eats people? Fleder. Maybe. He went along with Geralt once on a contract for one, and he remembers very well what they look like. The man’s description, assuming it’s accurate and not bloated with fear and trauma or regular storyteller embellishments, seems to fit well enough. Jaskier also distinctly recalls Geralt trying to scare him off with tales of how they drop from the air and chomp down with razor teeth before sucking a person dry. And then, when Jaskier refused to be cowed, Geralt told him that fleders are vulnerable to vampire oil and silver, which he then demonstrated.

Jaskier thinks _I should tell them what I know_ , but stops himself. Geralt had told him another story in which a witcher used a not-quite foolproof method to kill a fleder, something that struck Jaskier at the time as foolhardy but now seems almost doable.

And it’s such a bad idea that he has to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing. 

That night, however, he lies in his rented room, resting under a thin blanket and staring up at the ceiling. He thinks about the people talking about their fear, about their loved ones disappearing in a bloody mess, about horrible creatures that watch from a distance. About sharp teeth that grind down, frenetic eyes that seem to enjoy their victims’ pain. And he wonders who is going to take care of this problem. The townspeople said that they weren’t holding their breath that help would arrive before more people lost their lives. And Jaskier thinks it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea to at least try. As a matter of fact, it’s starting to look like a very good idea.

In the morning he goes to the local herbalist. The shop is small but easy to spot because the roof is mauve. He steps in, immediately overwhelmed by the heavy smell of herbs and spices. The room is lined with closely-packed shelves cluttered with boxes and jars of assorted goods. Jaskier trails along to read the labels, finding mostly everyday items that the average person might keep in their kitchen for cooking, or perhaps over their door or buried under the front stoop to protect their home.

Jaskier knows from traveling with a witcher for over two decades that herbalists tend to keep the more utilitarian items up front, and the less family-friendly bottles carefully stored in the back away from suspicious eyes and grubby hands. He approaches the front counter, mentally counting each crown he’s carrying and wondering what he can spare.

Based on what he knows, perhaps all of it. _You can’t take it with you, after all_. 

The herbalist is a middle-aged man with a deerskin vest, a clean-shaven face with small, round violet-tinted glasses and thick gray curls. He eyes Jaskier with some interest as the bard, clearly not one of the locals, steps up to the counter.

Jaskier smiles in greeting and says, “I was wondering if you happen to have any vampire oil?” He taps his fingers nervously as the man stares at him, mouth quirked like Jaskier just walked into a smithy asking about fresh bread.

Then the man tips his head, releasing Jaskier from the imagined hold. “It happens I do.”

The herbalist steps back from the counter and into the back room, emerging moments later with a round jar that might usually contain jam, though the gelatinous fluid inside is a gritty mustard yellow. He rests the jar on the counter for Jaskier to inspect, and Jaskier does, pretending that he knows enough to judge its worth before nodding his approval.

The herbalist begins to price the oil, but Jaskier interrupts, “There’s one other thing. Something I think might be…less common. “A flicker of interest from the man, through his eyes narrow dubiously. Jaskier plows on. “Black Blood?”

The man stares at him longer now, a line appearing between his brows. Suspicion replaced with concern. Jaskier squirms as the man says, slow and deliberate, “I hope you’re not planning anything foolish.”

Jaskier smiles. “I always am.”

The herbalist looks at him with reasonable skepticism. Jaskier accepts it cordially, very aware of how he looks and the fact that he’s a bard and therefore meant to collect stories, not make them. He’s absolutely not supposed to slay monsters. The only people who do that sort of thing for free, which he apparently is, would be someone like a knight.

Quirking his brow, the herbalist releases a reluctant breath, then returns to the back room, raising a finger to indicate that Jaskier should wait. It takes longer this time, but he comes back and produces a smaller flask resembling a bottle of perfume with a cork at the top. The contents look like sludge; the viscous, lazy movement of it as the herbalist tips the bottle back and forth for his observation turns Jaskier’s stomach.

They both stare at it for a moment before Jaskier snaps back and says, “Excellent. What will it cost me?”

Jaskier can’t say for sure, but he suspects that the herbalist might give him a discount, sending him on his way with a pitying look.

Armed with his oil, Black Blood and silver dagger, Jaskier thinks that everyone who ever called him a fool was certainly right. He does not have the power or durability of a witcher. He doesn’t even have regular armor. And his plan is unlikely at best. He won’t walk away from this confrontation, whatever form it takes, that’s certain, but it will be a worthy way to go. Better than to a random act of violence or falling down the stairs drunk. Better than getting old and passing alone in his sleep. This way, he gets to help people.

Jaskier stands before the border of trees, scanning the whispering leaves and thick, tangled bark for any suggestion of beasts. He imagines Geralt saying _Stay here_. He imagines Geralt caring that he is safe. It’s a wonderful fantasy. He steps into the forest.

Without knowing if it will work or how long the potion needs to function as he thinks it should or how long his body will be able to stand it, Jaskier takes the bottle of Black Blood and swallows it down, grimacing at the grainy, anise-like flavor. Awful. He spits thickly onto the dirt, scraping his tongue along his teeth with a groan, and finally takes a desperate swig from his flask.

This plan, formulated solely based on a second-hand account, feels more and more ridiculous as he traipses around the woods, wandering without purposeful direction, uncaring if he gets lost amongst the brush. He keeps his eyes peeled for a hint of bat ears or leathery skin, and his ears alert for something large moving through the high branches to watch from above, searching for a maybe-fleder that doesn’t seem interested all of a sudden.

The Black Blood doesn’t take long to burn through him. At first, it stings down his throat as if he swallowed a handful of stinging nettles, squeezing his esophagus until it feels swollen. Then a blistering in his stomach, subtle at first, then a horrible burn that throbs along with his quickening pulse. Heat builds around his ears then drains down until he is surrounded by it. Air struggles in and out, his chest hitching laboriously as he wheezes. His mind rises like steam, floating through a haze of dizziness that sends him stumbling along, catching on roots and stones as he goes, bumping confusedly into trees.

He must look sick or magnificently drunk. Weak.

It is then that Jaskier hears a shift above him, followed by a curious grumbling. A gust of wind, a shallow shriek, and his body is slammed into the ground. His jaw bashes shut with the impact and a solid pain surges along his spine. He cries out in shock but is silenced when he meets the earth, air snapping out of his chest as his fingers flex in the dirt and weight presses down on his back.

The creature above him makes a chittering noise that booms through the forest, and its body is a great pile of muscle, all applied down on Jaskier’s struggling form. Two long claws hook over his collar and pull it down, exposing the back of his neck and tearing a line through the fabric. Jaskier makes a choked noise and redoubles his efforts, bucking like a wild horse, blood rushing through his ears, eyes locked on the incongruously still trees before him.

This is the plan. It’s the whole fucking plan, realistically, but it is the body’s function to survive, and Jaskier can’t stem it’s frantic, instinctual fight. He manages to roll onto his back, swinging one leg out from under the fleder and twisting with all his strength until the creature is forced to move with him or get tangled in his limbs.

Before he can do any more, the creature, now in full view, shoves its weight down onto his shoulders to keep him in place and then tilts down to bite his neck.

Jaskier grunts at the unnatural pressure, then howls as the teeth puncture the pale skin over a vein and dig further in, catching then burrowing through with the slightest effort of the beast. His cry cuts off and drops into a ruined whine, and then warbles into low, pained noises that wrench from his clenched teeth against his will.

He can feel it sucking, bruising the flesh along its bite, pulling painfully. Then the blood seems to need no more help and simply pours out of him into the fleder’s waiting mouth.

Remembering himself, Jaskier snakes his hand down his waist, pulling his thoughts away from the bulk of the creature and its eager noises. The back of his palm slides along its rough skin and he forces himself not to recoil away, palming along his own belt. Panic. _Where is it?_ he thinks. _Where is it?_

Possibly sensing his quickening pulse, the fleder’s claws clasp along his shoulders and yank him in closer, nestling its face more snugly against his throat, causing Jaskier to gurgle. His hand stiffens between their bodies, fingers trembling. Mind bubbling and lost.

Then, relief. He grabs his oil-slicked silver dagger with a sob.

Jaskier remembers when Geralt gave him this dagger and chuckles, loose and delirious, because he definitely hadn’t imagined Jaskier using it like this. It was such a nice gift, so lovely in its velvet bag. Geralt had looked nervous. Uncertain. As if Jaskier would ever reject him, as if he could ever do anything but welcome and smile and wait for more. More, more, more. More than he could ever have. It’s a good memory. A kindness over the agony of Jaskier’s body.

In one shaking movement, Jaskier takes the dagger from its sheathe and draws it up into the fleder. The beast’s body goes momentarily still, then shrieks high and shrill into Jaskier’s neck, the noise muffled as it clenches its jaw tighter around his flesh, bringing forth a fresh spurt of blood. It growls like an angry dog before it pulls back with a scream.

Its scrabbling hands rip at Jaskier and he takes it, keeps his eyes open and watches with tapered interest. His blood is dark around the creature’s mouth, darker than it should be, and the fleder seems unable to decide between pressing at its stab wound and trying to make itself retch up its meal. There’s panicked understanding in its crimson eyes and it jerks away from him. Stumbles and screeches, as if calling for help.

Jaskier could laugh, he could cry. This is a good thing, to save townspeople, but the killing doesn’t feel good at all. Neither does the dying.

The fleder loses its balance and falls down near enough that if Jaskier works for it he could rest his hand on its back. He doesn’t. It cries out one last time, muscles bunching and twitching. Then its voice trickles into lightly pained groans. Then nothing.

When someone finds them, it will be an interesting sight indeed.

Jaskier reaches his hand up and feels where the blood is pumping out of him. The rush of it makes his heart twist. Disturbed, he lowers his hand to rest over the damp fabric of his shirt and looks instead up at the night sky, glittering with stars.

At least it’s a good story. At least the sky is still wonderful.

Then, like a spark, there’s a flash of unnatural red, and his vision is filled by a pale face. Green eyes, frowning. Small hands cup his throat, then squeeze. Jaskier groans, his mouth popping open wetly and a slur of nonsense warbling out.

The woman says, “Hush. Don’t move. Don’t move at all.”

Jaskier is drowsy and confused and it hurts but only distantly. He wants to tell her that it’s done now, that his very blood is bad, that there’s nothing she can do. But his tongue is too thick and he can’t move it around the words. Besides, it’s very nice to have someone with him in the end. Even a stranger.

There’s a rush of warmth like slipping unexpectedly into a hot bath in winter. The sensation follows directly under the path of the woman’s hands and Jaskier thinks _that’s odd, that’s very odd_. Then he drops from the world, easy as blinking.

~*~

When he returns, Jaskier opens his eyes to the ceiling of a little cabin. He brushes his hands along the linen of an unfamiliar blanket, body tensing with fickle consciousness over a hay-stuffed mattress. Heavy scents of coriander and thyme hang over him, along with the fluttering birdsong and summer air fresh through the open window. Overheated, Jaskier weakly shoves the blanket aside and turns his head, inhaling sharply at the stiff pain.

The woman is sitting in the corner, slumped over an overstuffed armchair that has been turned from the bubbling cauldron hung over the fireplace so she can face him. There’s dried blood at her nose and her eyes are shut, though he doesn’t think she’s sleeping.

Jaskier shifts again. His fingers, not yet steady, trace along his throat until they find the bump of a scar. Healed. He knows that when he looks in a mirror there will be a pink line of risen skin, but can’t quite conjure up any feeling about it one way or another.

The armchair creaks as the woman leans forward, bright eyes open and set on him. Her voice is calm and lilting when she nods at his hand, still brushing at the wound, and says, “The scar will remain, I’m afraid.”

There’s a funny feeling in the back of his head, like the tap, tap, tap of little probing fingers down the curve of his skull. It makes him shiver. Geralt told him once that he should mind himself around mages because they can pick through your mind. Unfortunately, when he had asked how to prevent or stop the intrusion, Geralt had only shrugged.

His body is sore head to toe. He wonders if that’s a remnant of the Black Blood or from getting rammed by a massive, hungry monster. Likely both. Jaskier moves his arms and pushes his legs down into a stretch, flinching at bright flickers of pain that bead all down the length of him.

The woman rises, fussing around the room as Jaskier watches. She returns with a mug of tea, warm and spicy with the smell of herbs, that she supports for him as he takes a careless sip. It burns his tongue but tastes sweet.

He says, “May I ask the name of my savior?”

Something unnamable flashes in her eyes, there and gone, before she answers. “I’m Visenna.” Her eyes narrow as if seeking recognition, like she is worried he might know the name. He doesn’t. She studies him, then says, “Black Blood is meant for witchers. Not ordinary men.”

Jaskier laughs, and the noise is weaker than normal but joyful all the same. Half-delirious, he arches a brow and pitches his voice a tad lower to say, “Perhaps I’m no ordinary man.”

She stares at him. “You turned your blood into poison.”

Jaskier nods. “Yes, I know. It burned a lot.”

A moment passes as they both consider his self-destructiveness. Then Visenna’s chin ticks up, mouth pulling into an unhappy line even as she attempts to look imperious. She asks, “Did you learn that trick from your White Wolf?”

He supposes that’s evidence enough that she was reading his mind. Eugh.

Jaskier sighs. “Geralt mentioned it once as something someone else had done. Another witcher apparently found it quite effective.” The words come out clipped, doing little to hide his agitation. But as he exposes his own frustration, Visenna’s shoulders seem to sag with relief and the stern angle of her jaw softens.

Visenna nods, then quickly shifts the conversation. “Your things are here.” She gestures to the corner, and Jaskier stiffly turns his head again to see his bag, dagger, and lute all tucked against the far wall. Tension he didn’t know he was holding releases in a sigh. She continues, “You’ll have to stay sedentary until you’ve healed. You may stay here for that time, if you please. It would be unwise to attempt the jostle of a horse for the trip to town.”

And so, he stays. Time passes sluggishly at first, wakefulness a rolling, tumbling thing that he grasps and loses nearly as quick. And then, finally, he opens his eyes to the easy light of midday as if consciousness had never eluded him at all, blinking awake with a mushed, unreasonable exhaustion that he pushes through into an upright position.

He’s alone in the cabin, and takes the time to reassess his surroundings. The smell is much the same; herbs and spices hanging from wooden beams and along twine ropes, ready to be plucked. Strange fluids cook and bubble in their own small pots, changing from one thing into another, unguarded. The fire burns low, barely more than a glow between ashy and ruined logs, smoke rising lazily up through the chimney, sending out a faint, woodsy smell. Jaskier’s things are still settled in the corner, waiting for him in plain sight, as if they had been sitting vigil over his rest.

Jaskier rubs his fingers over the unfamiliar linen of the bedding, wondering if this woman, Visenna, takes in patients often as a healer, or if he has taken over her personal bed. The thought makes him cringe and he throws the blanket away from his legs, freeing them to swing over and slide until the bottoms of his bare feet rest on the floor.

A wave of dizziness crashes over his skull, hooding his eyes with popping beads of light. _Too fast_ , he thinks, and leans forward until his head is between his legs. He waits it out, clenching his teeth against nausea, and then tries again, much slower now. His legs feel loose from disuse, wavering as he gradually lets them take his weight. He grips the bedpost in an attempt to stand upright, knuckles bleached white with effort. One step, then two. He wobbles, but doesn’t fall.

A sigh. “You need to sit down,” Visenna says, nearly sending Jaskier’s heart into his throat. His knees tremble and he doubles his grip on the wooden bedframe, shooting a glare at Visenna over his shoulder.

She stands in the doorway, arms straining with the heaviness of a wooden hip bath. Still, she somehow manages to appear despotic, looking for all the world like she belongs on a throne, or standing at the head of a table, debating politics or making demands. Not in a little hut with an herb garden and a bard who has sweat through her clean sheets. Her verdant eyes narrow, and for a moment he thinks he sees something familiar in that disapproving look, but quickly swipes the thought away as something created in a fever dream that rests nestled in his brain, creating memories where there are none. 

Seeing the wisdom in her words, and frankly too disoriented to challenge her, Jaskier lowers himself back down, grumbling about wasted effort. Visenna waits until he is down before crossing the room and setting the tub before him.

“Strip and get in,” she orders. Jaskier opens his mouth, but she turns around in a twist of skirt and apron and is back through the doorway before he can argue.

He stares down at the tub. It’s empty of water, but there is a pile of what looks like salt sat in the center of it, mixed in with green and purple bits of plant. Not normally one to be shy, Jaskier is surprised at his own reluctance to remove the few clothes he is currently wearing, which basically amounts to his underthings and bandages. But the idea of sitting in a basically empty tub when Visenna returns sits in his stomach like a rock, and he remains in his sitting position, glaring down at the bath, until Visenna returns with a steaming bucket in each hand.

“Bard,” she says, walking steadfast across the room and putting the buckets beside the tub, “I told you to get in.”

Jaskier hums, wondering if it would have been better to listen to her now that he’s faced with having to strip naked before her eyes. He licks his lips, fiddles with his fingers. “You’re not…” he waves nervously at the tub, and Visenna arches a brow, “going to bathe me, are you?”

Air huffs out of her nose in a half-amused, half-irritated breath. “I’ll bring you a rag to wash yourself with, but you need to soak.” Then, more reassuring, “I’ll be in the other room working.”

Again, Visenna sweeps out of the room with the abruptness of someone who has things to attend to and a schedule to uphold, though he isn’t sure how often customers knock on her door. The windows remain open to the summer air, letting in chirping birdsong and the occasional bustle and grumbling of animals, but Jaskier has not heard human voices, nor the busy trot of horses, or anything else to indicate she has brought him to a town. A country house, perhaps a farm. Hardly an easy spot for those needing a healer to reach in an emergency.

Then again, she never claimed to be a healer. His being here is basically incidental. All he knows is that she is a sorceress, or something akin to a sorceress, and that she seemingly does a fine job healing. If she returned with a butcher knife and started filleting him for her stew, he would be disappointed but not necessarily surprised. 

Feeling slightly less bothered, Jaskier strips, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Then, fully naked and doing his best not to blush, he lowers himself into the hip bath, salt crunching under him. He arranges himself carefully; the bath is just large enough that he can fit his feet in, as long as he crooks his knees up, and the rise in the back comfortably supports his back so he can relax.

Visenna’s retuning footsteps shock up his spine, and, feeling exposed, he grabs at one of the buckets and tries to tug it into his arms, shaking weakly as he does. The bucket is full of water, which wouldn’t ordinarily be an issue, but currently halts his efforts, the weight too much for him to lever, though he is still tugging at the handle when Visenna enters the room carrying a rag and a larger towel in a folded pile. She quirks a brow at him and hums her acknowledgment but doesn’t say anything. Jaskier releases the bucket and reassigns his hands the job of protecting his modesty, but Visenna’s eyes don’t waver from his own as she sets the rag and towel within his easy reach and lifts the first bucket, muttering a warning before she pours the water into the basin with him.

It is warm, but not scalding. Nearly the temperature of an ideal bath. Jaskier can’t help but moan as the water circles and rushes against him, instantly relieving the tension in his lower back. Visenna smirks, then carefully upends the other bucket, until the water is high enough to surround him, but not to splash over the edge of the tub.

“Good?” she asks in her business-like manner. Jaskier nods, and she nods back, then gestures at him with a pointed finger. “Move the salt around. It should dissolve. Don’t force yourself up if you get dizzy, and call if you need me.”

She then quickly strips the bed and disappears with the dirty bundle in her arms, leaving the cottage to presumably beat his sweat from her bed coverings and give him some privacy.

Jaskier watches her go and then slumps into the water, bringing his hand down to swish the salt and herbs around, before closing his eyes and letting the warmth sink in. He stays like that for some time before he even bothers reaching for the rag and washing himself. At some point during the process, the light notes of Visenna humming an old song carry in through the open window, slow and easy like a lullaby, and it nearly has the same effect on Jaskier, drooping his eyes with the inconvenient exhaustion of a healing body. The water cools before he can completely drop from wakefulness, however, and he forces himself to rise and dry off.

Perhaps hearing him move around, or somehow sensing that he has finished his bath, Visenna bustles into the cabin and dips into the back room again before emerging with another pile that she shoves into Jaskier’s arms without ceremony. Clothes. Simple and soft in gentle grays and browns, meant for lounging around the house. He thanks her before slipping them on.

Once he is clothed, she guides him by the elbow to her armchair before the fire. She says, “It will take a while for the bedding to dry, so you’ll have to stay here for a while. Would you like a book?”

Jaskier stares at her. “What are you?” he asks incongruously. Visenna pulls a face but he splutters onward, furrowing his brows. “I mean, are you a healer? Or a…sorceress? Or…?”

Something dark blooms behind her eyes, but her voice remains prim and detached as she answers. “I am a druid and a healer. Do you have a complaint?”

If Jaskier weren’t so well-trained at catching the emotion beneath forced indifference, he might have missed the sarcastic, knowing slope of her words, or how the corners of her mouth twitch with an aborted smile. But he sees it, and is briefly struck by how the shape of her unnatural eyes and the thin line of her lips are so similar to Geralt’s.

Conclusions drawn by a hungry, lonely mind, he thinks, and lets himself grin back at her.

“Not as of yet, but I would appreciate it if you would keep me company.” He taps at his own temple and settles himself back into the seat, showing off his helplessness. “I’m assuming you didn’t find much to fear up here, so I don’t know why you keep running away from me.”

She eyes him for a moment, then tilts her head in grudging allowance. “Alright,” she says. “First, let me empty the bath.” She hurries to the tub and starts scooping the water out with the empty buckets, glancing at him when his stomach growls. “And food. We should eat.”

Visenna does return with two bowls of soup. She carefully hands one over, along with a carved spoon, and watches as he mindfully brings it to his lips. Seemingly satisfied, she drags over a wooden chair and drops to sit beside him, starting in on her own meal. It’s rude to stare, but Jaskier does, watching at how her workworn hand cradles the bowl close to her chest, and how wisps and curls of her bright hair pry free of a braid and twist wildly from her temples. She is carefully sculpted in the way a sorceress would be, and there’s a wry look of things unsaid in the corners of her eyes as they stare back at him, meeting his attention with equal curiosity.

For a moment, they shift around the uncomfortable task of speaking first, but Jaskier has never been one to tarry. He licks his lips and says, “I know better than to try and pry your secrets from you. Years with a witcher- years as a bard, to be honest- have taught me that.”

Visenna smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Something wistful, something sad, lines her face, and Jaskier feels the wrench of seeing his own emotions reflected in another.

He continues, “I’m also not very good at keeping secrets. I’ll probably wring at least one song from this adventure. Keep your ears open for a ballad about a mysterious woman in the forest with eyes of jade and hair like a guiding lantern.” 

It’s bad, and Jaskier knows it’s bad. Visenna pulls a face at him, but a smile crests over her previous discomfort and her chest hiccups with a laugh that seems to surprise her, judging by how her eyes blare wide and her mouth clamps shut to smother the sound. It’s a good laugh; clumsy and ugly in the way all the best laughs are. 

~*~

Days pass like this; Jaskier recovering in front of the fireplace, Visenna moving between her duties as an herbalist and keeping him company, lifting her feet to warm before the low flames. Gradually, she becomes more comfortable under the barrage of rambling stories and anecdotes Jaskier shares, and slips forward her own. She tells him that if he were to go to the local village and ask about her, they would speak of the _mysterious forest witch_ , who is called in on emergencies and has been summoned on occasion to break a curse or pull some sort of miracle.

When he asks how true that is, she shrugs with an amused glimmer marking her face and says, “True as anything, I suppose,” and then quickly moves on.

He tells her about his travels and the people he has accompanied along the way. Her particular interest in Geralt is obvious, but not abnormal. Jaskier doesn’t get a sinking feeling when she asks questions about the grand White Wolf, nor the sense that he’s being tricked into revealing details to endanger Geralt. Just regular curiosity. Who wouldn’t ask about him?

Jaskier tells Visenna about his most recent correspondence with his brother- a letter from a few months ago in which Roark detailed the eb and flow of activity, trailing along the regular pattern it always does with their small group of tenants before finally mentioning his own children and how they’ve grown. Business before pleasure, as always.

It’s not the sort of thing he ever shared with Geralt, because he’d never really wanted to delve into it. But the letter has been lingering in his thoughts lately as he’s wandered alone, along with fantasies about returning to Lettenhove, finally giving in to decades of pressure and unwanted responsibilities, giving up his life as a wandering bard and planting himself somewhere to be surrounded by family, new and old. A nice thought, a terrifying thought.

Visenna listens attentively, a line forming between her brows as he teeters between adoration and anxiety. When his words stumble to a halt, her hands twine around the band of her apron and she tugs, eyes dulling with reflection. She seems to come to a decision, flicking her eyes to the window, where a gentle breeze puffs the curtains, wrangling the soft lace into serpentine shapes.

“It would be silly of me to offer advice, as someone who has spent much of her life alone,” she gestures at the cabin walls, the simple furniture and hanging greens. Her mouth pulls into a firm line. “I’ve had…opportunities. At times, my little home was full of voices. Laughter.” Seemingly of its own accord, her left hand trances over her flat stomach, rubbing once, twice, then going still and clenching in the fabric. Jaskier watches. 

His voice is low, similar to the tone he’d use with Roach as they listened to Geralt clatter through a battle. Soothing, but catching on his own nerves. “What happened?”

A sharp smile. “Hmm. The usual troubles, I suppose. Death. Promises. Cruel things fated.” She licks her lips and stands, swiping the wrinkles from her front before crossing her arms over her chest and setting him with a hard look. “I’m not sure if it was all worth it. I was hurt, and in turn caused others harm. Took what I didn’t need, gave what I should have kept. If I could go back, though, I would have chosen something different. Built a better life for myself, and…well. I would have held onto what I loved with a stronger grip, that’s all.”

With that, she turns and takes herself through the door, stepping outside with bare feet. Jaskier swallows hard, and doesn’t follow her. Wrings his hands and thinks, thinks, thinks about what might be worth it, and what he needs to hold onto.

~*~

Once Jaskier can turn his head without his neck protesting too much, he ventures outside and trails behind Visenna in her garden. It’s large and sprawling, with green vines and leaves leaning out into the lumpy rows. He’s careful not to step on anything, and is mindful to only touch what Visenna tells him to. She points to frail weeds and orders him to pluck them, then hands over a bright, red tomato and says that he should pick only the ones that look the same. His body still aches as if scourged by the flu, but he is happy to have a task and does exactly what she demands.

Occasional visitors come by, and they give him quizzical and suspicious looks, narrowing their eyes as if he might disappear, or, better yet, transform into a familiar before their very eyes. When they do come, Visenna welcomes them with whatever enthusiasm she can summon, then urges them into her home with careful sympathy and understanding. The visitors generally leave happier than when they arrived, carrying with them various bottles of ointment or medicine and careful instructions for each. Very few leave Visenna’s doorstep with stone-faced disappointment or trembling grief.

On a few occasions, Visenna gestures for him to follow her into the house, and will assign small jobs. Mash this, stir that. Please hold the dear lady’s hand. Count out twenty of these, and make sure it’s twenty exactly. He ambles around without complaint, which he can only imagine furthers the impression of him being a magical assistant.

The one time he whines at her, his brow sweaty under the sun, joints stiff and arms trembling weakly, Visenna turns a hard look on him and says, “That’ll teach you not to drink anymore poison.”

~*~

Near the end of summer, where the days can’t choose between stifling heat and crisp chill, Jaskier is deemed well enough to travel. His belongings are strewn about the cottage and he winds around gathering them up and carefully packing them in his bag, reacquainting himself with the weight of carrying his whole life over his shoulder. He takes his time, running hands, now dirtied from upturning soil in the garden, over now-familiar things, saying a quiet farewell to items and places that were never his own, but feel homey all the same.

Jaskier meets Visenna in the yard. She has dragged a wooden chair out and is basking in the final days of shimmering sun, her hair shining copper and burgundy under the light. As soon as she hears him walking through the door, she rises in one fluid motion. Her hands rest on her hips as she does a quick assessment, not bothering to hide what she’s doing.

Apparently still satisfied with her mending work, she gives him a curt nod and crouches before her chair. She scoops up several linen pouches. They look full, and the soft herbal aroma that rises from them exposes their contents. He smiles softly and lets her pluck his bag open, watching as she wordlessly finds room for her gift.

One last time, he looks out at the garden, which is lush and lovely and flourishing. Plants he has helped harvest poke through, some he can name and others he cannot. Pennyroyal and rosemary. He wonders what her little cottage looks like in the deep throes of autumn, and how Visenna copes when snow covers her small block of land. Probably reorganizes her efforts into the small trays she nourishes in her kitchen, rows and rows of a garden in miniature.

Jaskier is torn from his musing as Visenna brushes her hands over his doublet, beating the wrinkles from the worn fabric, eyes squinting at the ornate embroidery. Still standing close, she asks, “Are you ready?”

He nods. “I’ll miss you, though. Never expected my run-in with a fleder to result in a new, wonderous friendship.” Jaskier flushes his voice with vibrancy and twists his face into a smile, doing his best to hide the dark weave of looming loneliness and his reluctance to leave her. 

Visenna offers her own sad smile. “It’s strange how destiny moves us.”

Jaskier snorts. “Yes, very strange and often unfortunate.”

Her eyes tilt down and she traces her finger pad over his new scar. It’s still risen, but now that the color has settled from a bright, wounded red into an almost bruise-like purple it’s easier to make out the ridges and breaks between the fleder’s fangs. A dash over his throat. Not pretty, but not the most hideous thing he’s ever seen. In the past weeks under her care, Visenna has assured him time and again that the color will soothe into a dull pink, then likely fade into little more than a barely-there trace of white, only visible to those who come close, or will appear as a flash of silver in certain lighting. Jaskier traces her fingers’ path with his own, feeling the pattern of bumps, and doesn’t think he’d care if it stayed like this forever.

Quiet, as if afraid of his answer, Visenna asks, “When you drank the Black Blood…were you trying to die? Did he leave you so brokenhearted?”

Had they spoken of the mountain? No. She must have seen it in the forefront of his mind when she first brought him here, surging and rising like a swelling tide, painful and clear. Geralt’s blazing eyes, Geralt’s harsh words, Geralt’s pain, given and taken. Geralt, Geralt, Geralt.

Jaskier considers, then speaks slowly and deliberately, careful with each word. “I don’t think so. I think I wanted to prove to myself that I was useful. That it all meant something. Or…maybe I hoped word of a bard who slayed monsters would get around to him and he’d find me. To stop me, if nothing else.” He smiles weakly. “I know it’s silly.”

Something collapses in Visenna’s face, and an expression of both pain and relief floods down. She takes hold of his hand and squeezes, breath harsh as she says, “I don’t think it’s silly. I think it’s…I just hope…I believe he must be worth it.” Then, much quieter, “I believe it must all be worth it.”

They linger like that for some time, caught in half an embrace, emotion surging hot in their chests. They let it settle and realign itself in its proper place, buried or smothered. Battened down for now.

Visenna guides him down the road, and they walk together close enough that their shoulders bump amicably until he can clearly see the rooftops of the nearby town. Once more, she maneuvers Jaskier around to face her, this time pulling him in close for a brief hug before nearly shoving him away, her face locked into a stern expression.

She says, “Don’t get lost again, Jaskier.”

And he smiles, gives her a puckish and sloppy bow. “Can’t promise that. I’m something of a wanderer.”

Visenna rolls her eyes and leaves him, gathering her apron in her hands and stomping her way back up the path they’d just taken, her red hair hanging loose down her spine and glittering with almost blinding vibrancy. He stands and watches her go until she’s a blurry, faraway speck over the hills. Then he turns his feet towards the town and starts walking, already designing plans to visit the local tavern to drink and earn some coin before setting off again for further reaches. 

~*~

Jaskier returns to his travels, though they are no longer quite so mindless. He thinks over Visenna’s words and how she delicately stepped around her own story, explaining without detail a line of decisions and outside forces leading her to a quiet, busy life in a cottage, alone but for needy townspeople who are recalcitrant to enter her home and who leave satisfied but in a rush, as if she’ll underline the fine print of their bargain if they don’t get away fast enough. He considers her modest life, doing good and being useful, but ultimately very lonely. And he thinks about his own current standing, bumbling around half-blind and goalless, hands grabbing for something that isn’t there anymore. And he thinks about what he wants, what will please him and let him settle down each night with the ease of being on the right path.

His mind avoids the obvious answer, as it truly is not an option. Bleary and fumbling around the back of his mind, trying to bash him away as he smothers it down. 

The morning air is crisp and the grass is mottled with dew that clings like shining, freshwater pearls, quivering in place before sliding down and blotting against the hard earth. Jaskier can see a nearby village coming to life just a mile or so away, dusty shadows of people opening shops and preparing for a new day. The first rumbles of distant horse hooves and neighbors greeting and chattering away early morning croakiness.

He sighs and ambles up to a high stump, brushing the sandy remnants from the top and testing how wet it is before plonking himself down. His feet throb, both relieved and pained as he takes his weight off them, boots kicking out into the grass. With an easy slant of his shoulders, he shucks off his bag and lets it slip to the ground, then cracks open his lute case and brings the instrument to his chest.

A few quick plucks and strums to tune and warm his hands. The cold effects his body in new ways, leaving not only his usually nimble fingers stiff, but forming a creaking ache in his left knee where he once twisted it on a contract with Geralt, and a thrumming pain where a stray ghoul once crushed his left clavicle. Strangely fond if not fun memories, though not necessarily ones he wants to feel as the seasons turn, or each time the sky clouds for rain.

Oh well.

Jaskier points his right foot so that the heel thuds flat on the tree stump, hitching up the knee to better support his lute, and then begin playing in earnest. His voice is gentle, only loud enough for himself and the nearby wildlife, little creatures skittering through the trees at his disruption, but not seeming to go far. Words flutter like half-forgotten poems, smoothing into hums and meaningless mumbles that follow the tune in a lazy stroll.

Until the soft press of a tiny hand disturbs him, Jaskier has no idea that he has attracted an audience, and the light tap, tap, tap of the touch sends him to his feet. His toe catches on the strap of his bag as he whips around. He squawks and clutches the lute closer to his chest, feet hopping as he trips forward. Several other squeals harmonize along, pitched much higher but lacking his desperation. Screaming for the sake of making noise.

He manages to catch himself before his knees plonk into the wet ground and are stained green and then, flushed, drops back to sit on the stump, deciding that whatever is attacking will have to just get on with it.

Three faces, ruddy with excitement and wide-eyed confusion, probably not expecting his rather embarrassing and animated reaction and not sure whether to be apologetic or pleased, stare straight at him. Children. Jaskier sighs heavily and presses his hand over his heart until it loses some of its zeal.

“You frightened me,” he says, managing to laugh at himself. The children’s shoulders ease and they grin back, permission granted. “Dangerous thing to do to an old man.”

The children laugh and nod, perhaps not noticing that he had mentioned his ripe age ironically. One of them, a mud-smeared boy with tousled brown hair and generous freckles, points at Jaskier’s lute and says, “Are you a singer?”

Jaskier puffs out his chest with exaggerated theatricality. “Not only a singer, but a bard. A poet. A minstrel.” The children laugh again, and Jaskier’s smile stretches wider. “Were you listening to me earlier?”

They nod. “We were playing and heard music, but it sounded sort of silly so Krad said it was probably the fair folk and we came to see,” says one of the girls, who removes her flaxen braid from her mouth just long enough to finish her explanation before putting it right back in and chewing the ends contemplatively.

“Silly?” Jaskier asks, but is cut short when the last child, a smaller girl with a wool coat too thick for the autumn, prods him in the side with a finger.

“But you ain’t fair folk, are you?” she asks, jabbing at him again for emphasis. He tries to scoot away from her discreetly, angling his lute a bit to the side in hopes of blocking her small, blunt finger.

“No, I’m not. And what do you mean ‘sounded sort of silly’?” Jaskier raises a commanding brow, which does little to intimidate the children, who, if anything, look impatient with his slowness.

“Well, the words weren’t right,” says braid-girl.

Jaskier blinks. “You’re right, but that’s because I was just practicing. No real words.” He studies their faces and finds them understanding but clearly disappointed. The thought of disappointing a group of children he will never see again shouldn’t rattle in his chest, but it does, and he quickly resettles his lute into place and asks, “Would you like to hear a proper song?”

Their eyes light and they settle into the grass before him, backs straight as they watch his fingers work up and down the neck of the lute. Jaskier idles around for a moment, seeking the right song.

Before he can ask for recommendations, a habit picked up from working in taverns, the smaller girl jitters up, and, apparently unable to contain herself, shouts, “Something with monsters!” and then, as a second thought, she adds, “please.”

Jaskier grins. “Hmm. I know many songs about monsters.”

Then the boy, Krad, leans forward and asks, “What about the White Wolf? Do you know any about him?”

Something in Jaskier’s chest squeezes, but he doesn’t drop his smile. “I do. Probably even more than songs with monsters, but most with both.”

So, Jaskier wrangles his strumming to the beginning notes of an old song, one with monsters and the famous White Wolf, that ends with a moral. He is performing for children, after all.

~*~

The burn of it is that all this circular thinking leads to the same subject, the same desire, over and over, like a mechanical obsession, floundering and crawling up from his heart in mournful, angry turns. Damn him, Jaskier misses Geralt.

Because here’s the thing: he knows Geralt. He really knows him, and he knows that he was upset on that mountain. All the things in his life were building, and he fought with Yennefer and he was angry when Jaskier walked up to him, and that Jaskier was an easy target. Someone to lash out at. Jaskier and Geralt had fought a hundred times before and at the end of it, Geralt knew that Jaskier would stay. Jaskier always stayed. He couldn’t get the bard to go away. Jaskier was supposed to stay.

He spent over twenty years on real adventures, heart pounding with fear and excitement. He saw across the Continent, witnessed horrors and beauty, and spent his days with someone he loved. Regardless of the end, they were good years. How could all of that be a waste? If anything, they were proving to be the best years of his life.

~*~

Jaskier makes his way to the nearest tavern, lute decidedly remaining in its case, and orders himself a beer. The barmaid nods at him and quickly fills a tankard, sliding it toward him and waiting for her pay.

He passes over a few extra coins, waiting for her eyes to twinkle with understanding, and says, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything recently about a witcher?”

**Author's Note:**

> Up until the very second I posted this story I battled with the possibility of adding a bad spy Jaskier plotline. I talked myself out of it, obviously.   
> Once again, let me know if there are any tags I should add!  
> Might be a while before my next update. For various reasons, I want to post the next three parts at the same time and I only have two of them finished. I appreciate your patience! :)


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